Univ.  of  Cilifornlt 


FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO 
SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 


BY 

ZONA  GALE 

AUTHOR    OF    "  THE    LOVES    OF    PELLEAS    AND    ETTARRE 


gorfc 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

1922 

All  rights  reserved 


Corvmcirr,  1908, 
•v  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


&t  up  and  electrotyped.     *  ublished  October,  1908. 


Co 

EDITH,   HARRIET,  AND   MUSA 

AND    THE    TWO    FOR    WHOM    IT    COMES    TOO    LATE 

GEORGIA  AND  HELEN 

THIS    BOOK    IS    LOVINGLY    INSCRIBED 


?s 


n 


AUTHOR'S    NOTE 

FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE  is  not  known  to  me,  nor 
are  any  of  its  people,  save  in  the  comradeship  which 
I  offer  here.  But  I  commend  for  occupancy  a 
sweeter  place.  For  us  here  the  long  Caledonia 
hills,  the  four  rhythmic  spans  of  the  bridge,  the 
nearer  river,  the  island  where  the  first  birds  build  — 
these  teach  our  windows  the  quiet  and  the  oppor- 
tunity of  the  "  home  town,"  among  the  "  home 
people."  To  those  who  have  such  a  bond  to 
cherish  I  commend  the  little  real  home  towns,  their 
kindly,  brooding  companionship,  their  doors  to  an 
efficiency  as  intimate  as  that  of  fairy  fingers.  If 
there  were  shrines  to  these  things,  we  would  seek 
them.  The  urgency  is  to  recognize  shrines. 

PORTAGE,  WISCONSIN, 
September,  1908. 


CERTAIN  of  the  following  chapters  have  appeared 
in  The  Outlook,  The  Broadway  Magazine,  The  Delin- 
eator, Everybody's,  and  Harper  s  Monthly  Magazine. 
Thanks  are  due  to  the  editors  for  their  courteous 
permission  to  reprint  these  chapters. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.  THE  SIDE  DOOR    ......          I 

II.     THE  DEBUT la 

III.  NOBODY  SICK,   NOBODY  POOR  .         .          .28 

IV.  COVERS  FOR  SEVEN          .          ....       43 
V.  THE  SHADOW  OF  GOOD  THINGS  TO  COME           .        50 

VI.  STOCK           .      •   .  •  •       .         „         .         .         .68 

VII.  THE  BIG  WIND     ......        79 

VIII.  THE  GRANDMA  LADIES    .          .          .          .          .      107 

IX.  NOT  AS  THE  WORLD  GIVETH  .          .          .          .122 

X.     LONESOME  —  I 137 

XI.  LONESOME  —  II      .          .          .          .          .          .152 

XII.  OF  THE  SKY  AND  SOME  ROSEMARY  .          .          .165 

XIII.  TOP  FLOOR  BACK 183 

XIV.  AN  EPILOGUE 208 

XV.  THE  TEA  PARTY  .          .          .          .          .          .     214 

XVI.  WHAT  is  THAT  IN  THINE  HAND  ?     .          .          .      234 

XVII.  PUT  ON  THY  BEAUTIFUL  GARMENTS  .          .          .256 

XVIII.  IN  THE  WILDERNESS  A  CEDAR            .         .          .278 

XIX.  HERSELF       .......     295 

XX.  THE  HIDINGS  OF  POWER          .         .         •         .     307 


Friendship  Village 


THE    SIDE   DOOR 

IT  is  as  if  Friendship  Village  were  to  say :  — 
"There  is  no  help  for  it.  A  telephone  line,  an- 
tique oak  chairs,  kitchen  cabinets,  a  new  doctor,  and 
the  like  are  upon  us.  But  we  shall  be  mediaeval 
directly  —  we  and  our  improvements.  Really,  we 
are  so  now,  if  you  know  how  to  look." 

And  are  we  not  so  ?  We  are  one  long  street, 
rambling  from  sun  to  sun,  inheriting  traits  of  the 
parent  country  roads  which  we  unite.  And  we  are 
cross  streets,  members  of  the  same  family,  properly 
imitative,  proving  our  ancestorship  in  a  piimeval 
genius  for  trees,  or  bursting  out  in  inexplicable 
weaknesses  of  Court-House,  Engine-House,  Town 
Hall,  and  Telephone  Office.  Ultimately  our  stock 
dwindles  out  in  a  slaughter-yard  and  a  few  detached 
houses  of  milkmen.  The  cemetery  is  delicately 
put  behind  us,  under  a  hill.  There  is  nothing 
mediaeval  in  all  this,  one  would  say.  But  then  see 
how  we  wear  our  rue :  — 


2  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

When  one  of  us  telephones,  she  will  scrupulously 
ask  for  the  number,  not  the  name,  for  it  says  so  at 
the  top  of  every  page.  "Give  me  one-one,"  she 
will  put  it,  with  an  impersonality  as  fine  as  if  she  were 
calling  for  four  figures.  And  Central  will  answer :  — 

"Well,  I  just  saw  Mis'  Holcomb  go  'crost  the 
street.  I'll  call  you,  if  you  want,  when  she  comes 
back." 

Or,  "  I  don't  think  you  better  ring  the  Helmans* 
just  now.  They  were  awake  'most  all  night  with 
one  o'  Mis'  Helman's  attacks." 

Or,  "Doctor  June's  invited  to  Mis'  Sykes's  for 
tea.  Shall  I  give  him  to  you  there?" 

The  telephone  is  modern  enough.  But  in  our 
use  of  it  is  there  not  a  flavour  as  of  an  Elder  Time, 
to  be  caught  by  Them  of  Many  Years  from  Now  ? 
And  already  we  may  catch  this  flavour,  as  our 
Britain  great-great-lady  grandmothers,  and  more, 
may  have  been  conscious  of  the  old  fashion  of  sitting 
in  bowers.  If  only  they  were  conscious  like  that ! 
To  be  sure  of  it  would  be  to  touch  their  hands  in 
the  margins  of  the  ballad  books. 

Or  we  telephone  to  the  Livery  Barn  and  Boarding 
Stable  for  the  little  blacks,  celebrated  for  their 
self-control  in  encounters  with  the  Proudfits'  motor- 
car. The  stable-boy  answers  that  the  little  blacks 
are  at  "the  funeral."  And  after  he  has  gone  off 
to  ask  his  employer  what  is  in  then,  the  employer, 


THE  SIDE   DOOR  3 

who  in  his  unofficial  moments  is  our  neighbour, 
our  church  choir  bass,  our  landlord  even,  comes 
and  tells  us  that,  after  all,  we  may  have  the  little 
blacks,  and  he  himself  brings  them  round  at  once, 
—  the  same  little  blacks  that  we  meant  all  along. 
And  when,  quite  naturally,  we  wonder  at  the  boy's 
version,  we  learn :  "  Oh,  why,  the  blacks  was  standin* 
just  acrost  the  street,  waitin'  at  the  church  door, 
hitched  to  the  hearse.  I  took  'em  out  an'  put  in 
the  bays.  I  says  to  myself:  '  The  corp  won't  care.' ' 
Someway  the  Proudfits'  car  and  the  stable  telephone 
must  themselves  have  slipped  from  modernity  to 
old  fashion  before  that  incident  shall  quite  come 
into  its  own. 

So  it  is  with  certain  of  our  domestic  ways.  For 
example,  Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes  —  in  Friendship 
Village  every  woman  assumes  for  given  name  the 
employment  of  her  husband  —  has  some  fine  modern 
china  and  much  solid  silver  in  extremely  good  taste, 
so  much,  indeed,  that  she  is  wont  to  confess  to  hav- 
ing cleaned  forty,  or  sixty,  or  seventy-five  pieces  — 
"seventy-five  pieces  of  solid  silver  have  I  cleaned 
this  morning.  You  can  say  what  you  want  to, 
nice  things  are  a  rill  care."  Yet  —  surely  this  is 
the  proper  conjunction  —  Mis'  Sykes  is  currently 
reported  to  rise  in  the  night  preceding  the  days  of 
her  house  cleaning,  and  to  take  her  carpets  out  in 
the  back  yard,  and  there  softly  to  sweep  and  sweep 


4  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

them  so  that,  at  their  official  cleaning  next  day, 
the  neighbours  may  witness  how  little  dirt  is 
whipped  out  on  the  line.  Ought  she  not  to  have 
old-fashioned  silver  and  egg-shell  china  and  drop- 
leaf  mahogany  to  fit  the  practice  ?  Instead  of 
daisy  and  wild-rose  patterns  in  "solid,"  and  art 
curtains,  and  mission  chairs,  and  a  white-enamelled 
refrigerator,  and  a  gas  range. 

We  have  the  latest  funeral  equipment,  —  black 
broadcloth-covered  supports,  a  coffin  carriage  for 
up-and-down  the  aisles,  natural  palms  to  order, 
and  the  pulleys  to  "let  them  down  slow";  and  yet 
our  individual  funeral  capacity  has  been  such  that 
we  can  tell  what  every  woman  who  has  died  in 
Friendship  for  years  has  "  done  without " :  Mis' 
Grocer  Stew,  her  of  all  folks,  had  done  without 
new-style  flat-irons;  Mis'  Worth  had  used  the 
bread  pan  to  wash  dishes  in;  Mis'  Jeweller  Sprague 
—  the  first  Mis'  Sprague  —  had  had  only  six  bread 
and  butter  knives,  her  that  could  get  wholesale 
too.  .  .  .  And  we  have  little  maid-servants  who 
answer  our  bells  in  caps  and  trays,  so  to  say;  but 
this  savour  of  jestership  is  authentic,  for  any  one 
of  them  is  likely  to  do  as  of  late  did  Mis'  Holcomb- 
that-was-Mame  Bliss's  maid,  —  answer,  at  dinner- 
with-guests,  that  there  were  no  more  mashed  pota- 
toes, "or  else,  there  won't  be  any  left  to  warm  up 
for  your  breakfasts."  .  .  .  And  though  we  have 


THE   SIDE   DOOR  5 

our  daily  newspaper,  receiving  Associated  Press 
service,  yet,  as  Mis'  Amanda  Toplady  observed,  it 
is  "only  very  lately  that  they  have  mentioned  in 
the  Daily  the  birth  of  a  child,  or  anything  that  had 
anything  of  a  tang  to  it." 

We  put  new  wine  in  old  bottles,  but  also  we  use 
new  bottles  to  hold  our  old  wine.  For,  consider  the 
name  of  our  main  street:  is  this  Main  or  Clark 
or  Cook  or  Grand  Street,  according  to  the  register 
of  the  main  streets  of  towns  ?  Instead,  for  its  half- 
mile  of  village  life,  the  Plank  Road,  macadamized 
and  arc-lighted,  is  called  Daphne  Street.  Daphne 
Street!  I  love  to  wonder  why.  Did  our  dear 
Doctor  June's  father  name  it  when  he  set  the  five 
hundred  elms  and  oaks  which  glorify  us  ?  Or 
did  Daphne  herself  take  this  way  on  the  day  of  her 
flight,  so  that  when  they  came  to  draught  the  town, 
they  recognized  that  it  was  Daphne  Street,  and  so 
were  spared  the  trouble  of  naming  it  ?  Or  did  the 
Future  anonymously  toss  us  back  the  suggestion, 
thrifty  of  some  day  of  her  own  when  she  might 
remember  us  and  say,  "Daphne  Street!"  Already 
some  of  us  smile  wL  a  secret  nod  at  something 
when  we  direct  a  stranger,  "You  will  find  the 
Telegraph  and  Cable  Office  two  blocks  down,  on 
Daphne  Street."  "The  Commercial  Travellers' 
House,  the  Abigail  Arnold  Home  Bakery,  the  Post- 
office  and  Armoury  are  in  the  same  block  on  Daphne 


6  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

Street."  Or,  "The  Electric  Light  Office  is  at  the 
corner  of  Dunn  and  Daphne."  It  is  not  wonderful 
that  Daphne  herself,  foreseeing  these  things,  did 
not  stay,  but  lifted  her  laurels  somewhat  nearer 
Tempe,  —  although  there  are  those  of  us  who  like 
to  fancy  that  she  is  here  all  the  time  in  our  Daphne- 
street  magic:  the  fire  bell,  the  tulip  beds,  and  the 
twilight  bonfires.  For  how  else,  in  all  reason,  has 
the  name  persisted  ? 

Of  late  a  new  doctor  has  appeared  —  one  may 
say,  has  abounded :  a  surgeon  who,  such  is  his  zeal, 
will  almost  perform  an  operation  over  the  telephone 
and,  we  have  come  somewhat  cynically  to  believe, 
would  prefer  doing  so  to  not  operating  at  all.  As 
Calliope  Marsh  puts  it:  — 

"He  is  great  on  operations,  that  little  doctor. 
Let  him  go  into  any  house,  an'  some  o*  the  family, 
seems  though,  has  to  be  operated  on,  usually  inside 
o*  twelve  hours.  It'll  get  so  that  as  soon  as  he 
strikes  the  front  porch,  they'll  commence  sterilizin* 
water.  I  donno  but  some'll  go  an*  put  on  the  tea- 
kettle if  they  even  see  him  drive  past." 

Why  within  twelve  hour  #e  wonder  when  we 
hear  the  edict  ?  Why  never  fourteen  hours,  or  six  ? 
How  does  it  happen  that  no  matter  at  what  stage 
of  the  malady  the  new  doctor  is  called,  the  patient 
always  has  to  be  operated  on  within  twelve  hours  ? 
Is  it  that  everybody  has  a  bunch  and  goes  about 


THE   SIDE    DOOR  7 

not  knowing  it  until  he  appears  ?  Or  is  he  a  kind  of 
basanite  for  bunches,  and  do  they  come  out  on  us 
at  the  sight  of  him  ?  There  are  those  of  us  who  al- 
most hesitate  to  take  his  hand,  fearing  that  he  will  fix 
us  with  his  eye,  point  somewhere  about,  and  tell  us, 
"Within  twelve  hours,  //  you  want  your  life  your 
own."  But  in  spite  of  his  skill  and  his  modernity, 
in  our  midst  there  persist  those  who,  in  a  scientific 
night,  would  die  rather  than  risk  our  advantages. 

Thus  the  New  shoulders  the  Old,  and  our  transi- 
tion is  still  swift  enough  to  be  a  spectacle,  as  was  its 
earlier  phase  which  gave  over  our  Middle  West 
to  cabins  and  plough  horses,  with  a  tendency  away 
from  wigwams  and  bob-whites.  And  in  this  local 
warfare  between  Old  and  New  a  chief  figure  is 
Calliope  Marsh  —  who  just  said  that  about  the 
new  doctor.  She  is  a  little  rosy  wrinkled  creature 
officially  —  though  no  other  than  officially  —  per- 
taining to  sixty  years;  mender  of  lace,  seller  of 
extracts,  and  music  teacher,  but  of  the  three  she 
thinks  of  the  last  as  her  true  vocation.  ("I  come 
honestly  by  that,"  she  says.  "You  know  my  father 
before  me  was  rill  musical.  I  was  babtized  Calliope 
because  a  circus  with  one  come  through  the  town 
<-he  day't  I  was  born.")  And  with  her,  too,  the 
grafting  of  to-morrow  upon  yesterday  is  uncon- 
scious; or  only  momentarily  conscious,  as  when 
she  phrased  it:  — 


8  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

"Land,  land,  I  like  New  as  well  as  anybody. 
But  I  want  it  should  be  put  in  the  Old  kind  o' 
gentle,  like  an  /-dee  in  your  mind,  an'  not  sudden, 
like  a  bullet  in  your  brain." 

In  her  acceptance  of  innovations  Calliope  symbol- 
izes the  fine  Friendship  tendency  to  scientific  pro- 
cedure, to  the  penetration  of  the  unknown  through 
the  known,  the  explication  of  mystery  by  natural 
law.  And  when  to  the  bright-figured  paper  and 
pictures  of  her  little  sitting  room  she  had  added 
a  print  of  the  Mona  Lisa,  she  observed :  — 

"She  sort  o'  lifts  me  up,  like  somethin'  I've  thought 
of,  myself.  But  I  don't  see  any  sense  in  raisin' 
a  question  about  what  her  smile  means.  I  told  the 
agent  so.  'Whenever  I  set  for  my  photograph,' 
I  says  to  him,  '  I  always  have  that  same  silly  smile 
on  my  face." 

With  us  all  the  Friendship  idea  prevails:  we 
accept  what  Progress  sends,  but  we  regard  it  in  our 
own  fashion.  Our  improvements,  like  our  enter- 
tainments, our  funerals,  our  holidays,  and  our  very 
loves,  are  but  Friendship  Village  exponents  of  the 
modern  spirit.  Perhaps,  in  a  tenderer  significance 
than  she  meant,  Calliope  characterized  us  when 
she  said :  — 

"This  town  is  more  like  a  back  door  than  a  front 
—  or,  givin'  it  full  credit,  anyhow,  it's  no  more'n 
a  side  door,  with  no  vines." 


THE   SIDE   DOOR  q 

For  indeed,  we  are  a  kind  of  middle  door  to 
experience,  minus  the  fuss  of  official  arriving  and, 
too,  without  the  old  odours  of  the  kitchen  savoury 
beds;  but  having,  instead,  a  serene  side-door 
existence,  partaking  of  both  electric  bells  and  of 
neighbours  with  shawls  pinned  over  their  heads. 

Only  at  one  point  Calliope  was  wrong.  There 
are  vines,  with  tendrils  and  flowers  and  many  birds. 


11 

THE   DEBUT 

MRS.  RICKER,  "washens,  scrubben,  work  by 
the  day  or  Our,"  as  the  sign  of  her  own  lettering 
announced,  had  come  into  a  little  fortune  by  the 
death  of  her  first  husband,  Al  Kitton,  early  divorced 
and  late  repentant.  Just  before  my  arrival  in 
Friendship  she  had  bought  a  respectable  frame 
house  in  the  heart  of  the  village,  — -  for  a  village  will 
have  a  heart  instead  of  having  a  boulevard,  —  and 
with  her  daughter  Emerel  she  had  set  up  a  modest 
establishment  with  Ingrain  carpets  and  parlour 
pieces,  and  a  bit  of  grass  in  front.  Thus  Emerel 
Kitton  —  we,  in  our  simple,  penultimate  way, 
called  it  Kitten  —  became  a  kind  of  heiress.  She 
had  been  christened  Emma  Ella,  but  her  mother, 
of  her  love  of  order,  had  tidied  the  name  to  Emerel, 
and  Friendship  had  adopted  the  form,  perhaps  as 
having  about  it  something  pleasing  and  jewel-like. 
Though  Emerel  was  in  the  thirties  at  the  time  of 
her  inheritance,  she  was  still  pretty,  shy,  conformable; 


10 


THE    DEBUT  II 

and  yet  there  was  no  disguising  that  she  was  nearly 
a  spinster  when,  as  soon  as  the  white  house  was 
settled,  Mrs.  Ricker  issued  invitations  to  her  daughter's 
coming-out  party. 

You  aRe  Invite 
to  A 

Comen  Out  Recep 
Next  wenesday  Night  at  eigt 

At  Her  Home 

EMMA  ELLA  KITTON 
MRS.  RICKER  AND  KITTON 

Pa 

the  invitations  said,  and  the  "Pa"  was  divined  to 
imply  "Please  answer/' 

"It's  Kitton's  money  an'  it's  his  daughter.  I  hed 
to  hev  him  in  it  somehow,"  Mrs.  Ricker  explained 
her  double  signature.  "You  see,"  she  added,  "  up 
till  now  I  ain't  never  been  situate'  so's  Emerel 
could  come  out.  I've  always  wanted  to  give  her 
things,  too,  but  't  seems  like  when  I've  tried, 
everything's  shook  its  fist  at  me.  It  ain't  too  late. 
Emerel  looks  just  like  she  did  fifteen  years  ago, 
don't  she?" 

It  was  at  once  observed  that  if  Emerel  shared 
her  mother's  enthusiasm  for  the  project,  she  did 
not  betray  it.  But  then  no  one  knew  much  about 
Emerel  save  that  she  was  engaged,  and  had  been 


12  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

so  for  some  years,  to  big  Abe  Daniel,  the  Methodist 
tenor,  a  circumstance  wholly  unconsidered  in  the 
scheme  of  her  debut. 

Quite  simply  and  with  happy  pride,  Mrs.  Ricker 
and  Kitton  issued  her  invitations  to  every  one  in  the 
village  who  had  ever  employed  her.  And  the  village 
was  divided  against  itself. 

"  How  can  we  ?"  Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes  demanded, 
"I  ask  you.  There's  things  to  omit  an*  there's 
things  to  observe.  We  should  be  The  Laughing 
Stock." 

"The  Laughing  Stock,"  variously  echoed  her 
followers. 

On  the  other  hand :  — 

"Land,  o'  course  we'll  all  go,"  Mis'  Amanda 
Toplady  comfortably  settled  it,  "an'  take  Emerel 
a  deboo  present,  civilized.  The  dear  child." 

And  to  that  many  of  us  gladly  assented,  Timothy, 
big  Amanda's  little  husband,  going  so  far  as  to  add : 

"I  do  vum,  the  Sykeses  feels  the  post-office  like 
it  was  that  much  oats." 

A  day  later  Timothy's  opinion  seemed,  he  thought, 
to  be  verified.  Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes  issued 
"written  invites  to  an  evening  party,  hot  supper 
and  like  that,"  as  Friendship  communicated  it,  to 
be  given  on  the  very  night  of  Emerel's  debut. 

Friendship  was  shaken.  Never  in  the  history 
of  the  village  had  two  social  affairs  been  set  for  the 


THE   DEBUT  13 

same  hour.  Indeed,  more  than  one  hostess  had 
postponed  an  impending  tea-party  or  thimble  party 
or  "afternoon  coffee"  or  "five  o'clock  supper" 
on  hearing  that  another  was  planned  for  the  same 
day.  And  now,  when  there  were  those  of  us  anx- 
ious to  "do  something  nice"  for  hard-working 
little  Mrs.  Ricker,  the  Sykeses  had  deliberately 
sought  the  forbidden  ground.  And  Society  dare 
not  deny  Mis'  Sykes,  for  besides  "being  who  she 
was"  ("She's  the  leader  in  Friendship  if  they  is 
a  leader,"  we  said,  emphatically  implying  that 
there  was  none),  she  kept  two  maids,  —  little  young 
thing  and  a  rill  hired  girl,  —  entertained  "  above 
the  most,"  put  out  her  sewing  and  wore,  we  kept 
in  the  back  of  our  minds,  a  bar  pin,  solid,  with 
"four  solitaires"  in  it.  And,  "Oh,  you  know," 
Calliope  Marsh  admitted  to  me  later/"  Mis'  Sykes 
is  rilly  a  great  society  woman.  They  isn't  any- 
body's funeral  that  she  don't  get  to  ride  to  the 
cemet'ry."^ 

Mrs.  Ricker  and  Kitton  accepted  the  situation 
with  fine  philosophy. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "the  whole  town  can  dance 
to  the  Sykeses'  fiddlin'  if  they  want.  But  it's  a  pretty 
pass  if  they  do  let  anybody  step  in  before  me  that's 
washed  for  'em  an'cleaned  their  houses  years  on  end." 

My  own  course  was  pleasantly  simple.  Mrs. 
Ricker  and  Kitton  had  included  me  on  her  list, 


14  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

accredited,  no  doubt,  because  a  few  weeks  earlier 
she  had  helped  me  to  settle  my  belongings  in  Old- 
moxon  house,  and  since  then  had  twice  swept  for  me, 
and  was  to  come  in  a  day  or  two  to  do  so  again. 
As  I  had  instantly  accepted  her  invitation,  I  had 
no  choice  when  Mis'  Sykes's  "written  invite "  came, 
even  though  when  it  arrived  Mis'  Sykes  herself  was 
calling  on  me. 

"Well  said,"  she  observed,  when  she  saw  a  neigh- 
bour's little  girl,  her  temporary  servitor,  coming 
up  my  walk  with  the  invitations  in  a  paper  bag  to 
be  kept  clean,  "I  meant  to  get  my  call  made  on 
you  before  your  invite  got  here.  I  hope  you'll 
overlook  taking  us  both  together.  I've  meant  to 
call  on  you  before,  but  I  declare  it  looked  like  a 
mountain  to  me  to  get  started  out.  Don't  you  find 
your  calls  a  rill  chore?" 

But  Mis'  Sykes's  visit  was,  she  confessed,  "Errand 
as  well  as  Call." 

"The  Friendship  Married  Ladies'  Cemetery  Im- 
provement Sodality,"  she  told  me,  as  she  rose  to  go, 
"  is  to  our  wits'  end  to  get  up  a  new  entertainment. 
We  want  to  give  something,  and  we  want  it  should 
be  rill  new  and  spicey,  but  of  course  it  has  to  be 
pretty  quiet,  owing  to  the  Cause  —  the  Dead,  so. 
It  bars  us  from  home-talent  evenings  or  festivals 
or  like  that.  And  the  minute  I  saw  the  inside  o* 
your  house  it  come  to  me:  of  course  you  know 


THE   DEBUT  15 

your  house  is  differ'nt  from  Friendship.  If  I'd 
been  shot  out  of  a  gun  into  it,  I  wouldn't  V  sensed 
I  was  in  Friendship  at  all.  You've  got  nice  things, 
all  carved  an'  hard  to  dust.  The  Oldmoxons  use' 
to  do  a  lot  o'  entertainin',  an'  everybody  remem- 
bers it,  an'  the  house  has  been  shut  quite  some 
time.  Well,  now,  you've  been  ask'  to  join  the 
Sodality.  An'  if  you  was  to  announce  an  Evening 
Benefit  for  it,  here  in  your  home,  the  whole  town'd 
come  out  to  it  hot- foot.  We're  owin'  Zittelhof  on 
Eph  Cadoza's  coffin  yet,  an'  I  shouldn't  wonder  an' 
that  one  evening  would  pay  him  all  off  and,  same 
time,  get  you  rill  well  acquainted.  Don't  you  think 
it's  a  nice  /-dea  ? " 

As  I  had  come  to  Friendship  chiefly  to  get  away 
from  everywhere,  I  thought  that  I  had  never 
heard  such  a  bad  plan.  But  inasmuch  as  I  was 
obliged  to  refuse  outright  one  invitation  of  my 
visitor's,  about  the  other  I  weakly  temporized  and 
promised  to  let  her  know.  And  she  went  away, 
deploring  my  hasty  acceptance  of  Mrs.  Ricker  and 
Kitton,  although,  "How  could  you  tell?"  she  strove 
to  excuse  me.  "  A  person  coming  to  a  strange  town 
so,  of  course  they  accept  all  their  invitations  good 
faith.  And  then  her  signing  her  name  that  way 
might  mislead  you.  It  gives  a  rill  sensation  of  a 
hyphen.  But  still,  the  spelling  —  after  all  you'd 
ought  — " 


16  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

She  looked  at  me  with  tardy  suspicion. 

"Some  geniuses  can't  spell  very  well,  you  know," 
I  defended  my  discrimination. 

"That's  so,"  she  admitted  brightly;  "I  see  you're 
literary." 

The  next  morning  the  other  principal,  Mrs. 
Ricker  and  Kitton,  arrived  to  keep  her  engagement 
with  me.  She  was  a  little  woman,  suggesting  wire, 
which  gave  and  sprang  when  she  moved,  and  paper, 
which  crackled  when  she  laughed.  Her  speech 
was  all  independence,  confidence,  self-possession; 
but  in  her  silences  I  have  seldom  seen  so  wistful  a 
face  as  hers. 

In  response  to  my  question :  — 

"Oh,"  Mrs.  Ricker  and  Kitton  said  brightly, 
"everything's  goin'  fine.  I  s'pose  the  town's  still 
decidin'  between  us,  but  up  to  now  I  ain't  had  but 
one  regrets  that  can't  come  —  that's  Mis'  Stew.  She 
wrote  it  was  on  account  o'  domestic  affliction,  an' 
I  hadn't  heard  what,  so  I  went  right  down. 
'Seems  nobody  had  died  —  she  ain't  much  of  any 
family,  anyway.  But  she'd  wrote  her  letter  out 
of  a  letter  book,  an'  the  only  one  she  could  find 
regrettin'  an  invite  give  domestic  affliction  for  the 
reason.  She  said  she  didn't  know  a  letter  like  that 
hed  to  be  true,  an'  I  don't  know  as  it  does,  either." 

She  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  searching  my  face. 

"Look-a-here,"    she   said;    "they's    somethin'    I 


THE    DEBUT  17 

thought  of.  Mebbe  you've  heard  of  it  bein'  done 
in  the  City  somewheres.  Do  you  s'pose  folks'd 
be  willin'  to  send  Emerel's  an'  my  funeral  flowers 
to  the  comin'  out  party  Instead?9' 

"Funeral  .  .  .   ?"     I   doubted. 

"Grave  flowers,"  she  explained.  "You  know, 
they're  a  perfect  waste  so  far's  the  General  Dead 
is  concerned.  An'  land  knows,  the  fam'ly  don't 
sense  'em  much  more.  Anyway,  Emerel  an'  I 
ain't  got  any  fam'ly.  An'  if  folks'd  be  willin'  to 
send  us  what  flowers  they  would  send  us  if  we  died 
now,  then  they'd  do  us  some  good.  We'll  never 
want  'em  more'n  we  do  now,  dead  or  alive. 
'Least,  I  won't.  Emerel,  she  don't  seem  to  care. 
But  do  you  think  it'd  be  all  right  if  I  was  to  mention 
it  out  around  ?" 

My  desire  to  have  this  happen  I  did  my  best  not 
to  confuse  with  a  disinterested  opinion.  But  indeed 
Mrs.  Ricker  and  Kitton  was  seldom  in  need  of  an 
opinion,  as  was  proved  that  night  by  the  appearance 
of  this  notice  in  the  Friendship  Daily:  — 

All  that  would  give  flowers  when  dead  please 
send  same  anyhow  and  not  expected  to  send  same 
if  we  do  die  afterwards. 

MRS.   RICKER  AND  KITTON. 

All  of  Friendship  society  which  intended  to 
accept  Mis'  Sykes's  invitation  hastened  with  re- 


i8  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

lieved  eagerness  to  follow  with  flowers  its  regiets 
to  the  "  comen  out  recep."  For  every  one  was  genu- 
inely attached  to  the  little  laundress  and  interested 
in  her  welfare  —  up  to  the  point  of  sacrificing 
social  interests  in  the  eyes  of  the  Sykeses.  Friend- 
ship gardens  were  rich  with  Autumn,  cosmos  and 
salvia  and  opulent  asters,  and  on  the  morning  of 
the  two  parties  this  store  of  sweetness  was  rifled 
for  the  debutante.  By  noon  Mrs.  Ricker  and 
Kitton  was  saying  in  awe,  "Nobody  in  Friend- 
ship ever  had  this  many  flowers,  dead,  or  alive,  or 
rich."  And  although  some  of  us  grieved  that 
Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes  had  shown  what  she  named 
her  good-will  by  ordering  from  the  town  a  pillow 
of  white  carnations  (but  with  no  "wording"), 
Mrs.  Ricker  and  Kitton  received  even  this  sug- 
gestive token  with  simple-hearted  delight. 

"It'll  look  lovely  on  the  lamp  shelf,"  she  ob- 
served. "I've  often  planned  how  nice  my  parlour'd 
trim  up  for  a  funeral." 

In  the  preparation  for  the  two  events,  the  one 
unconcerned  and  unconsulted  appeared  to  be  the 
debutante  herself.  We  never  said  "  Emerel's  party" ; 
we  all  said  "Mis'  Ricker's  party."  We  knew  that 
Mrs.  Ricker  and  Kitton  was  putting  painstaking 
care  on  Emerel's  coming-out  dress,  which  was  to  be 
a  surprise,  but  otherwise  Emerel  was  seldom  even 
mentioned  in  connection  with  her  debut.  And 


THE   DEBUT  19 

whenever  we  saw  her,  it  was  as  Friendship  had 
seen  her  for  two  years,  —  walking  quietly  with  Abe 
Daniel,  her  betrothed. 

"It's  doin'  things  kind  o*  backwards,"  Calliope 
Marsh  said,  "engaged  first  an'  comin'  out  in  society 
afterwards.  But  I  donno  as  it's  any  more  back- 
wards than  ridin'  to  the  cemet'ry  feet  first.  What's 
what  all  depends  on  what  you  agree  on  for  What. 
If  it  ain't  your  soul  you  mean  about,"  she  added 
cryptically. 

The  Topladys  and  others  of  us  who  united  to 
uphold  Emerel,  and  especially  to  uphold  Emerel's 
mother,  could  not  but  realize  that  the  majority  of 
Friendship  society  had  regretted  to  decline  the 
debut  party,  and  had  been  pleased  to  accept  the 
hospitality  of  the  Postmaster  Sykeses.  I  dare  say 
that  this  may  have  been  partly  why,  in  the  usual 
self-indulgence  of  challenge,  I  put  on  my  prettiest 
frock  for  the  party  and  prepared  to  set  out  some- 
what early,  hoping  for  the  amusement  of  sharing 
in  the  finishing  touches.  But  as  I  was  leaving  my 
house  Calliope  Marsh  arrived,  buttoned  tightly  in 
her  best  gray  henrietta,  her  cheeks  hot  with  some 
intense  excitement. 

"Well,"  she  said  without  preface,  "they've 
done  it.  Emerel  Kitton's  married.  She's  just 
married  Abe  at  the  parsonage  to  get  out  o'  bein* 
debooed.  They've  gone  to  take  the  train  now." 


20  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

No  one  could  fail  to  see  what  this  would  mean 
to  Mrs.  Ricker  and  Kitton,  and,  rather  than  the 
newly  married  Emerel,  it  was  she  who  absorbed  our 
speculation. 

"Mis'  Ricker  just  slimpsed,"  Calliope  told  me. 
"  I  says  to  her :  '  Look  here,  Mis'  Ricker,  don't  you 
go  givin'  in.  Your  kitchen's  a  sight  with  the  good 
things  o'  your  hand  —  think  o'  that,'  I  told  her; 
'think  how  you  mortgaged  your  very  funeral  for 
to-night,  an'  brace  yourself  up/  An'  she  says, 
awful  pitiful:  'I  cant,  Calliope,'  she  says.  °T 
seems  like  this  slips  the  pins  right  out.  They  ain't 
nothin'  to  deboo  with  now,  anyway,'  she  told  me. 
'How  can  I?'" 

"Oh,  poor  Mrs.  Ricker!"   I  exclaimed. 

Calliope  looked  at  me  intently. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "that's  what  I  run  in  about. 
You're  a  stranger  just  fresh  come  here.  You  ain't 
met  folks  much  yet.  An'  Mis'  Sykes,  she's  just 
crazy  to  get  a-hold  o'  you  an'  your  house  for  the 
Sodality.  An'  the  only  thing  I  could  think  of  for 
Mis'  Ricker  —  well,  would  you  stand  up  with  Mis' 
Ricker  to-night  an'  shake  all  their  hands  ?  An'  sort 
o'  leave  her  deboo  for  you,  you  might  say  ?" 

I  think  that  I  loved  Calliope  for  this  even  before 
she  understood  my  assent.  But  she  added  some- 
thing which  puzzled  me. 

"If  I  was  you,"  she  observed,  "I'd  do  somethin' 


THE   DEBUT  21 

else  to-night,  too.  You  could  do  it  —  or  I  could 
do  it  for  you.  You  don't  expect  to  let  Mis'  Sykes 
hev  the  Sodality  here,  do  you?" 

"I  might  have  had  it  here,"  I  said  impulsively, 
"  if  she  had  not  done  this  to  poor  little  Mrs.  Ricker." 

"Would  —  would  you  give  me  the  lief  to  say 
that?"  Calliope  asked  demurely. 

I  had  no  objection  in  the  world  to  any  one  know- 
ing my  opinion  of  Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes's  proceed- 
ing,—  "one  of  her  preposterousnesses,"  Calliope 
called  it, — and  I  said  so,  and  set  off  for  Mrs.  Ricker's, 
while  Calliope  herself  flew  somewhere  else  on  some 
last  mission.  And,  "Mis'  Sykes'd  ought  to  be 
showed,"  she  called  to  me  over-shoulder.  "That 
woman's  got  a  sinful  pride.  She'd  wear  fur  in 
August  to  prove  she  could  afford  to  hev  moths !" 

The  Ricker  parlour  was  a  garden  which  sloped 
gently,  as  a  garden  should,  for  the  house  was  old 
and  the  parlour  floor  sagged  toward  the  entrance  so 
that  the  front  of  the  organ  was  propped  on  wooden 
blocks.  The  room  was  bedizened  with  flowers, 
in  dishes,  tins,  and  gallon  jars,  so  that  it  seemed 
some  way  an  alien  thing,  like  a  prune  horse.  On 
the  lamp  shelf  was  the  huge  white  carnation  pillow, 
across  which  the  hostess  had  inscribed  "welcom," 
in  stems. 

Within  ten  minutes  of  the  appointed  hour  all 
those  who  had  been  pleased  to  accept  were  in  the 


22  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

rooms,  and  Mrs.  Ricker  and  Kitton  and  I,  standing 
among  the  funeral  flowers,  received  the  guests 
while  Calliope,  hovering  at  the  door,  gave  the  key 
with :  "  Ain't  you  heard  ?  Emerel's  a  bride  instead 
of  a  debbytant.  Ain't  it  a  rill  joke  ?  Married 
to-night  an*  we're  here  to  celebrate.  Throw  off 
your  things."  Then  she  hopelessly  involved  them 
in  a  presentation  to  me,  and  between  us  we  con- 
trived to  elide  Mrs.  Ricker  and  Kitton  from  all 
save  her  perfunctory  office,  until  her  voice  and  lips 
ceased  their  trembling.  Poor  little  hostess,  in  her 
starched  lawn  which  had  seemed  to  her  adequate 
for  her  unpretentious  role  of  mother !  All  her  hu- 
mour and  independence  and  self-possession  had  left 
her,  and  in  their  stea-d,  on  what  was  to  have  been 
her  great  night,  had  settled  only  the  immemorial 
wistfulness. 

Although  I  did  not  then  foresee  it,  the  guests 
that  evening  were  destined  to  point  me  to  many 
meanings,  like  sketches  in  the  note-book  of  a 
patient  Pen.  I  aie  fond  of  remembering  them  as  I 
saw  them  first:  fche  Topladys,  that  great  Mis' 
Amanda,  ponderous,  majestic,  and  suggesting  black 
grosgrain,  her  bearding  way  of  whole-hearted  ap- 
proval not  quite  masking  the  critical,  house-wife 
glances  which  she  continually  cast;  and  little 
Timothy,  her  husband,  who,  in  company,  went 
quite  out  of  his  head  and  could  think  of  nothing 


THE   DEBUT  23 

to  say  save  "  Blisterin'  Benson,  what  I  think  is  this : 
ain't  everything  movin'  off  nice?"  Dear  Doctor 
June,  pastor  emeritus  of  Friendship,  since  he  was 
so  identified  with  all  the  village  interests  that  not 
many  could  tell  from  what  church  he  had  retired. 
(At  each  of  the  three  Friendship  churches  he  rented 
a  pew,  and  contributed  impartially  to  their  benefi- 
cences; and,  "seems  to  me  the  Lord  would  of," 
he  sometimes  apologized  for  this.)  Photographer 
Jimmy  Sturgis,  who  stood  about  with  one  eye  shut, 
and  who  drove  the  'bus,  took  charge  of  the  mail- 
bags,  conducted  a  photograph  gallery,  and  painted 
portraits.  ("The  Dead  From  Photos  a  specialty," 
was  tacked  on  the  risers  of  the  stairs  leading  to  his 
studio.)  And  Mis'  Photographer  Sturgis,  who  was 
an  invalid  and  "very,  very  seldom  got  out."  (Not, 
I  was  to  learn,  an  invalid  because  of  ill  health,  but 
by  nature.  She  was  an  invalid  as  other  people 
are  blond  or  brunette,  and  no  more  to  be  said 
about  it.)  Miss  Liddy  Ember,  the  village  seam- 
stress, and  her  beautiful  sister  Ellen,  who  was  "not 
quite  right,"  and  whom  -  Miss  Liddy  took  about 
and  treated  like  a  child  until  the  times  when  Ellen 
"come  herself  again,"  and  tMen  she  quite  over- 
shadowed in  personality  little  busy  Miss  Liddy. 
Mis'  Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss,  and  Eppleby 
Holcomb,  and  the  "Other"  Holcombs;  Mis'  Doctor 
Helman,  the  Gekerjecks,  who  "  kept  the  drug  store," 


24  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

and  scented  the  world  with  musk  and  essences. 
("Musk  on  one  handkerchief  and  some  kind  o' 
flower  scent  on  your  other  one,"  Mis'  Gekerjeck 
was  wont  to  say,  "then  you  can  suit  everybody, 
say  who  who  will.") --These  and  the  others  Mrs. 
Ricker  and  Kitton  and  I  received,  standing  before 
the  white  carnation  pillow.  And  I,  who  had  come 
to  Friendship  to  get  away  from  everywhere,  found 
myself  the  one  to  whom  they  did  honour,  as  they 
were  to  have  honoured  Emerel. 

When  the  hour  for  supper  came,  Mrs.  Ricker 
and  Kitton  excused  herself  because  she  must  "see 
to  gettin'  it  on  to  the  plates,"  and  Mis'  Toplady, 
Mis'  Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss,  Calliope,  and 
I  "handed."  We  had  all  lent  silver  and  dishes  — 
indeed,  save  at  Mis'  Sykes's  (and  of  course  at  the 
Proudfits'  of  Proudfit  estate),  there  is  rarely  a  Friend- 
ship party  at  which  the  pantries  of  the  guests  are 
not  represented,  an  arrangement  seeming  almost 
to  hold  in  anticipation  certain  social  and  political 
ideals.  (If  the  telephone  yields  us  an  invitation 
from  those  whom  we  know  best,  we  always  answer: 
"Thank  you.  I  will.  What  do  you  want  me  to 
send  over?"  Is  there  such  a  matter-of-course 
federation  on  any  boulevard  ?)  And  after  the 
guests  had  been  served  and  the  talk  had  been  re- 
sumed, we  four  who  had  "handed"  sat  down,  with 
Mrs.  Ricker  and  Kitton,  at  meat,  at  a  corner  of 
the  kitchen  table. 


THE   DEBUT  25 

"Everything  tastes  like  so  much  chips  to  me 
when  I  hev  company,  anyhow,"  the  hostess  said 
sadly,  "but  to-night  it's  got  the  regular  salt-pork 
taste.  When  I'm  nervous  or  got  delegates  or 
comin*  down  with  anything,  I  always  taste  salt 
pork/' 

"Well,  everything's  all  of  a  whirl  to  me,"  Calliope 
confessed,  "an'  I  should  think  your  brains,  Mis' 
Ricker,  'd  be  fair  rarin'  'round  in  your  head." 

"Who  didn't  eat  what?"  Mrs.  Ricker  and  Kitton 
asked  listlessly.  "I  meant  to  keep  track  when  the 
plates  come  out,  but  I  didn't.  Did  they  all  take 
a-hold  rill  good?" 

"They  wa'n't  any  mincin'  't/  see,"  Mis'Holcomb- 
that-was-Mame-Bliss  assured  her.  "  Everything  you 
had  was  lovely,  an'  everybody  made  'way  with  all 
they  got." 

WTe  might  have  kept  indefinitely  on  at  these  fasci- 
nating comparisons,  but  some  unaccountable  stir  and 
bustle  and  rise  of  talk  in  the  other  rooms  persuaded 
our  attention.  ("Can  they  be  goin'  home?"  cried 
that  great  Mis'  Amanda  Toplady.  "If  they  are, 
I'll  go  bail  Timothy  Toplady  started  it."  And, 
"  I  bet  they've  broke  the  finger  bowl,"  Mrs.  Ricker 
and  Kitton  prophesied  darkly.)  And  then  we  all 
went  in  to  see  what  had  happened,  but  it  was  what 
none  of  us  could  possibly  have  forecast :  Crowding 
in  the  parlour,  overflowing  into  the  sitting  room, 


26  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

still  entering  from  the  porch,  were  Postmaster  and 
Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes  and  all  their  guests. 

It  was  quite  as  if  Wishes  had  gathered  head  and 
spirited  them  there.  I  remember  the  white  little 
face  of  Mrs.  Ricker  and  Kitton,  luminously  gratified 
to  the  point  of  triumph;  and  Mis'  Sykes's  brisk 
and  cordial  "No  reason  why  we  shouldn't  go  to 
two  receptions  in  an  evening,  like  they  do  in  the 
City,  Mis'  Ricker,  is  they?"  And  the  aplomb 
of  the  hostess's  self-respecting,  corrective  "An 
Kitton.  'Count  of  Al  bein'  so  thoughtful  in  death." 
And  then  to  my  amazement  Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes 
turned  to  me  and  held  out  both  hands. 

"I  am  so  glad"  she  said,  almost  in  the  rhythm 
of  certain  exhausts,  "that  you've  decided  to  hev 
Sodality  at  your  house.  You  must  just  let  me 
take  a-hold  of  it  for  you  and  run  it.  And  I'm  going 
to  propose  your  name  the  very  next  meeting  we  hev, 
can't  I?" 

I  walked  home  with  Calliope  when  we  had  left 
Mrs.  Ricker  and  Kitton,  tired  but  triumphant. 
("Land,"  the  hostess  said,  "now  it's  turned  out  so 
nice,  I  donno  but  I'm  rill  pleased  Emerel's  married. 
I'd  hate  to  think  o'  borrowin'  all  them  things  over 
again  for  a  weddin'.")  And  in  the  dark  street 
Calliope  said  to  me :  — 

"You  see  what  I  done,  I  guess.     I  told  you  Mis' 


THE    DEBUT  27 

Sykes  was  regular  up-in-arms  about  usin'  your 
house  —  though  I  think  the  rill  reason  is  she  wants 
to  get  upstairs  in  it.  You  know  how  some  are. 
So  I  marched  myself  up  there  before  the  party,  an* 
I  told  her  you  wasn't  goin'  to  hev  Sodality  sole 
because  you  thought  she'd  been  so  mean  to  Mis' 
Ricker.  An'  I  give  her  to  understand  sharp  off  't 
she'd  better  do  what  she  did  do  if  she  wanted  you 
in  the  Sodality  at  all.  'An','  s'l,  <  I  donno  what  she'll 
think  o'  you  anyway,  not  knowin'  enough  to  go  to 
two  companies  in  one  evenin',  like  the  City,  even 
if  one  is  your  own.'  She  see  reason.  You  know, 
Mis'  Sykes  an'  I  are  kind  o'  connections,  but  you 
can  make  even  your  relations  see  sense  if  you  go 
at  'em  right.  I  donno,"  Calliope  ended  doubtfully, 
"but  I  done  wrong.  An'  yet  I  feel  good  friends 
with  my  backbone  too,  like  I'd  done  right!" 

And  it  was  so  that  having  come  to  Friendship 
Village  to  get  away  from  everywhere,  I  yet  found 
myself  abruptly  launched  in  its  society,  committed 
to  its  Sodality,  and,  best  of  all,  friends  with  Calliope 
Marsh. 


Ill 


NOBODY    SICK,    NOBODY    POOR 

Two  days  before  Thanksgiving  the  air  was 
already  filled  with  white  turkey  feathers,  and  I  stood 
at  a  window  and  watched  until  the  loneliness  of 
my  still  house  seemed  like  something  pointing  a 
mocking  finger  at  me.  When  I  could  bear  it  no 
longer  I  went  out  in  the  snow,  and  through  the  soft 
drifts  I  fought  my  way  up  the  Plank  Road  toward 
the  village. 

I  had  almost  passed  the  little  bundled  figure  before 
I  recognized  Calliope.  She  was  walking  in  the 
middle  of  the  road,  as  in  Friendship  we  all  walk 
in  winter;  and  neither  of  us  had  umbrellas.  I  think 
that  I  distrust  people  who  put  up  umbrellas  on  a 
country  road  in  a  fall  of  friendly  flakes. 

Instead  of  inquiring  perfunctorily  how  I  did,  she 
greeted  me  with  a  fragment  of  what  she  had  been 
thinking  —  which  is  always  as  if  one  were  to  open 
a  door  of  his  mind  to  you  instead  of  signing  you 
greeting  from  a  closed  window. 

•0 


NOBODY  SICK,   NOBODY  POOR  29 

"I  just  been  tellin'  myself,"  she  looked  up  to  say 
without  preface,  "that  if  I  could  see  one  more  good 
old-fashion*  Thanksgivin',  life'd  sort  o'  smooth 
out.  An*  land  knows,  it  needs  some  smoothin* 
out  for  me." 

With  this  I  remember  that  it  was  as  if  my  own 
loneliness  spoke  for  me.  At  my  reply  Calliope 
looked  at  me  quickly  —  as  if  I,  too,  had  opened 
a  door. 

"Sometimes  Thanksgivin'  is  some  like  seein' 
the  sun  shine  when  you're  feelin'  rill  rainy  yourself," 
she  said  thoughtfully. 

She  held  out  her  blue-mittened  hand  and  let  the 
flakes  fall  on  it  in  stars  and  coronets. 

"I  wonder,"  she  asked  evenly,  "if  you'd  help 
me  get  up  a  Thanksgivin'  dinner  for  a  few  poor 
sick  folks  here  in  Friendship?" 

In  order  to  keep  my  self-respect,  I  recall  that  I 
was  as  ungracious  as  possible.  I  think  I  said  that 
the  day  meant  so  little  to  me  that  I  was  willing  to 
do  anything  to  avoid  spending  it  alone.  A  state- 
ment which  seems  to  me  now  not  to  bristle  with 
logic. 

"That's  nice  of  you,"  Calliope  replied  genially. 
Then  she  hesitated,  looking  down  Daphne  Street, 
which  the  Plank  Road  had  become,  toward  certain 
white  houses.  There  were  the  homes  of  Mis' 
Mayor  Uppers,  Mis'  Holcomb-that-was-Mame- 


30  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

Bliss,  and  the  Liberty  sisters,  —  all  substantia, 
dignified  houses,  typical  of  the  simple  prosperity 
of  the  countryside. 

"The  only  trouble,"  she  added  simply,  "is  that 
in  Friendship  I  don't  know  of  a  soul  rill  sick,  nor 
a  soul  what  you  might  call  poor." 

At  this  I  laughed,  unwillingly  enough.  Dear  Cal- 
liope !  Here  indeed  was  a  drawback  to  her  project. 

"Honestly,"  she  said  reflectively,  "Friendship 
can't  seem  to  do  anything  like  any  other  town. 
When  the  new  minister  come  here,  he  give  out  he  was 
goin'  to  do  settlement  work.  An'  his  second  week 
in  the  place  he  come  to  me  with  a  reg'lar  hang-dog 
look.  '  What  kind  of  a  town  is  this  ?'  he  says  to  me, 
disgusted.  'They  ain't  nobody  sick  in  it  an'  they 
ain't  nobody  poor!'  I  guess  he  could  'a'  got  along 
without  the  poor  —  most  of  us  can.  But  we  mostly 
like  to  hev  a  few  sick  to  carry  the  flowers  off  our 
house  plants  to,  an'  now  an'  then  a  tumbler  o'  jell. 
An'  yet  I've  known  weeks  at  a  time  when  they  wasn't 
a  soul  rill  flat  down  sick  in  Friendship.  It's  so 
now.  An'  that's  hard,  when  you're  young  an' 
enthusiastic,  like  the  minister." 

"But  where  are  you  going  to  find  your  guests 
then,  Calliope?"  I  asked  curiously. 

"Well,"  she  said  brightly,  "I  was  just  plannin* 
as  you  come  up  with  me.  An'  I  says  to  myself: 
'  God  give  me  to  live  in  a  little  bit  of  a  place  where 


NOBODY  SICK,   NOBODY  POOR  31 

we've  all  got  enough  to  get  along  on,  an*  Thanks- 
givin'  finds  us  all  in  health.  It  looks  like  He'd 
afflicted  us  by  lettin'  us  hev  nobody  to  do  for/  An* 
then  it  come  to  me  that  if  we  was  to  get  up  the 
dinner,  —  with  all  the  misery  an'  hunger  they  is 
in  the  world,  —  God  in  His  goodness  would  let  some 
of  it  come  our  way  to  be  fed.  'In  the  wilderness 
a  cedar,'  you  know  —  as  Liddy  Ember  an'  I  was 
always  tellin'  each  other  when  we  kep'  shop  to- 
gether. An'  so  to-day  I  said  to  myself  I'd  go  to 
work  an'  get  up  the  dinner  an'  trust  there'd  be 
eaters  for  it." 

"Why,  Calliope,"  I  said,  "Calliope!" 

"I  ain't  got  much  to  do  with,  myself,"  she  added 
apologetically;  "the  most  I've  got  in  my  sullar,  I 
guess,  is  a  gallon  jar  o'  watermelon  pickles.  I  could 
give  that.  You  don't  think  it  sounds  irreverent  — 
connectin'  God  with  a  big  dinner,  so?"  she  asked 
anxiously. 

And,  at  my  reply :  — 

"Well,  then,"  she  said  briskly,  "let's  step  in  an' 
see  a  few  folks  that  might  be  able  to  tell  us  of  some- 
body to  do  for.  Let's  ask  Mis'  Mayor  Uppers 
an'  Mis'  Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss,  an'  the 
Liberty  girls." 

Because  I  was  lonely  and  idle,  and  because  I 
dreaded  inexpressibly  going  back  to  my  still  house, 
I  went  with  her.  Her  ways  were  a  kind  of  enter- 


32  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

tainment,  and  I  remember  that  I  believed  my 
leisure  to  be  infinite. 

We  turned  first  toward  the  big  shuttered  house 
of  Mis'  Mayor  Uppers,  to  whom,  although  her 
husband  had  been  a  year  ago  removed  from  office, 
discredited,  and  had  not  since  been  seen  in  Friend- 
ship, we  yet  gave  her  old  proud  title,  as  if  she  had 
been  Former  Lady  Mayoress.  For  the  present 
mayor,  Authority  Hubblethwaite,  was,  as  Calliope 
said,  "unconnect'." 

I  watched  Mis'  Uppers  in  some  curiosity  while 
Calliope  explained  that  she  was  planning  a  dinner 
for  the  poor  and  sick, —  "the  lame  and  the  sick 
that's  comfortable  enough  off  to  eat,"  —and  could 
she  suggest  some  poor  and  sick  to  ask  ?  Mis' 
Uppers  was  like  a  vinegar  cruet  of  mine,  slim  and 
tall,  with  a  little  grotesquely  puckered  face  for  a 
stopper,  as  if  the  whole  known  world  were  sour. 

"I'm  sure,"  she  said  humbly,  "it's  a  nice  i-dea. 
But  I  declare,  I'm  put  to  it  to  suggest.  We  ain't 
got  nobody  sick  nor  nobody  poor  in  Friendship, 
you  know." 

"  Don't  you  know  of  anybody  kind  o'  hard  up  ? 
Or  somebody  that,  if  they  ain't  down  sick,  feels  sort 
o'  spindlin'?"  Calliope  asked  anxiously. 

Mis'  Uppers  thought,  rocking  a  little  and  running 
a  pin  in  and  out  of  a  fold  of  her  skirt. 

"No,"  she  said  at  length,  "I  don't  know  a  soul. 


NOBODY  SICK,   NOBODY  POOR  33 

I  think  the  church'd  give  a  good  deal  if  a  real  poor 
family'd  come  here  to  do  for.  Since  the  Cadozas 
went,  we  ain't  known  which  way  to  look  for  poor. 
Mis'  Ricker  gettin'  her  fortune  so  puts  her  beyond 
the  wolf.  An'  Peleg  Bemus,  you  can't  get  him  to 
take  anything.  No,  I  don't  know  of  anybody  real 
decently  poor." 

"An'  nobody  sick?"  Calliope  pressed  her  wist- 
fully. 

"Well,  there's  Mis'  Crawford,"  admitted  Mis' 
Uppers;  "she  had  a  spell  o'  lumbago  two  weeks  ago, 
but  I  see  her  pass  the  house  to-day.  Mis'  Brady  was 
laid  up  with  toothache,  too,  but  the  Daily  last  night 
said  she'd  had  it  out.  An'  Mis'  Doctor  Helman 
did  have  one  o'  her  stomach  attacks  this  week,  an' 
Elzabella  got  out  her  dyin'  dishes  an'  her  dyin'  linen 
from  the  still-room  —  you  know  how  Mis'  Doctor 
always  brings  out  her  nice  things  when  she's  sick, 
so't  if  she  should  die  an'  the  neighbours  come  in, 
it'd  all  be  shipshape.  But  she  got  better  this 
time  an'  helped  put  'em  back.  I  declare  it's  hard 
to  get  up  anything  in  the  charity  line  here." 

Calliope  sat  smiling  a  little,  and  I  knew  that  it  was 
because  of  her  secret  certainty  that  "some  o'  the 
hunger"  would  come  her  way,  to  be  fed. 

"I  can't  help  thinkin',"  she  said  quietly,  "that 
we'll  find  somebody.  An'  I  tell  you  what:  if  we  do, 
can  I  count  on  you  to  help  some?" 


34  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

Mis'  Mayor  Uppers  flushed  with  quick  pleasure. 

"Me,  Calliope?"  she  said.  And  I  remembered 
that  they  had  told  me  how  the  Friendship  Married 
Ladies'  Cemetery  Improvement  Sodality  had  been 
unable  to  tempt  Mis'  Uppers  to  a  single  meeting 
since  the  mayor  ran  away.  "Oh,  but  I  couldn't 
though,"  she  said  wistfully. 

"No  need  to  go  to  the  table  if  you  don't  want," 
Calliope  told  her.  "  Just  bake  up  somethin'  for  us  an' 
bring  it  over.  Make  a  couple  o'  your  cherry  pies  - 
did  you  get  hold  of  any  cherries  to  put  up  this  year  ? 
Well,  a  couple  o'  your  cherry  pies  an'  a  batch  o* 
your  nice  drop  sponge  cakes,"  she  directed.  "Could 
you?" 

Mis'  Mayor  Uppers  looked  up  with  a  kind  of 
light  in  her  eyes. 

"  Why,  yes,"  she  said,  "  I  could,  I  guess.  I'll  bake 
'em  Thanksgivin'  mornin'.  I  —  I  was  wonderin' 
how  I'd  put  in  the  day." 

When  we  stepped  out  in  the  snow  again,  Calliope's 
face  was  shining.  Sometimes  now,  when  my  faith  is 
weak  in  any  good  thing,  I  remember  her  look  that 
November  morning.  But  all  that  I  thought  then 
was  how  I  was  being  entertained  that  lonely  day. 

The  dear  Liberty  sisters  were  next,  Lucy  and 
Viny  and  Libbie  Liberty.  We  went  to  the  side  door, 
—  there  were  houses  in  Friendship  whose  front 
doors  we  tacitly  understood  that  we  were  never  ex- 


NOBODY  SICK,  NOBODY  POOR  35 

pected  to  use,  —  and  we  found  the  sisters  down 
cellar,  with  shawls  over  their  heads,  feeding  their 
hens  through  the  cellar  window,  opening  on  the 
glassed-in  coop  under  the  porch. 

In  Friendship  it  is  a  point  of  etiquette  for  a  morn- 
ing caller  never  to  interrupt  the  employment  of  a 
hostess.  So  we  obeyed  the  summons  of  the  Liberty 
sisters  to  "come  right  down";  and  we  sat  on  a  firkin 
and  an  inverted  tub  while  Calliope  told  her  plan  and 
the  hens  fought  for  delectable  morsels. 

"My  grief!"  said  Libbie  Liberty,  tartly,  "where 
you  goin'  to  get  your  sick  an'  poor?" 

Mis'  Viny,  balancing  on  the  window  ledge  to  reach 
for  eggs,  looked  back  at  us. 

"Friendship's  so  comfortable  that  way,"  she  said, 
"I  don't  see  how  you  can  get  up  much  of  anything." 

And  little  Miss  Lucy,  kneeling  on  the  floor  of  the 
cellar  to  measure  more  feed,  said  without  looking 
up:  — 

"You  know,  since  mother  died  we  ain't  never  done 
anything  for  holidays.  No  —  we  can't  seem  to 
want  to  think  about  Thanksgiving  or  Christmas  or 
like  that." 

They  all  turned  their  grave  lined  faces  toward  us. 

"We  want  to  let  the  holidays  just  slip  by  without 
noticin',"  Miss  Viny  told  us.  "Seems  like  it  hurts 
less  that  way." 

Libbie  Liberty  smiled  wanly. 


36  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"  Don't  you  know,"  she  said,  "when  you  hold  your 
hand  still  in  hot  water,  you  don't  feel  how  hot  the 
water  really  is  ?  But  when  you  move  around  in  it 
some,  it  begins  to  burn  you.  Well,  when  we  let 
Thanksgiving  an'  Christmas  alone,  it  ain't  so  bad. 
But  when  we  start  to  move  around  in  'em  — " 

Her  voice  faltered  and  stopped. 

"We  miss  mother  terrible,"  Miss  Lucy  said  simply. 

Calliope  put  her  blue  mitten  to  her  mouth,  but 
her  eyes  she  might  not  hide,  and  they  were  soft  with 
sympathy. 

"  I  know  —  I  know,"  she  said.  "  I  remember  the 
first  Christmas  after  my  mother  died  —  I  ached 
like  the  toothache  all  over  me,  an'  I  couldn't  bear 
to  open  my  presents.  Nor  the  next  year  I  couldn't 
either  —  I  couldn't  open  my  presents  with  any 
heart.  But-  Calliope  hesitated,  "that  second 
year,"  she  said,  "I  found  somethin'  I  could  do. 
I  saw  I  could  fix  up  little  things  for  other  folks  an' 
take  some  comfort  in  it.  Like  mother  would  of." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  looking  thoughtfully 
at  the  three  lonely  figures  in  the  dark  cellar  of  their 
house. 

"Your  mother,"  she  said  abruptly,  "stuffed  the 
turkey  for  a  year  ago  the  last  harvest  home." 

"Yes,"  they  said. 

"Look  here,"  said  Calliope;  "if  I  can  get  some 
poor  folks  together,  —  or  even  one  poor  folk,  or 


NOBODY  SICK,  NOBODY  POOR  37 

hungry,  —  will  you  three  come  over  to  my  house  an' 
stuff  the  turkey  ?  The  way  —  I  can't  help  thinkin* 
the  way  your  mother  would  of,  if  she'd  been  here. 
An'  then,"  Calliope  went  on  briskly,  "could  you 
bring  some  fresh  eggs  an'  make  a  pan  o'  custard 
ov""  to  my  house  ?  An'  mebbe  one  o'  you'd  stir  up 
a  sunshine  cake.  You  must  know  how  to  make 
your  mother's  sunshine  cake?" 

There  was  another  silence  in  the  cellar  when 
Calliope  had  done,  and  for  a  minute  I  wondered  if, 
after  all,  she  had  not  failed,  and  if  the  bleeding  of 
the  three  hearts  might  be  so  stanched.  It  was  not 
self-reliant  Libbie  Liberty  who  spoke  first;  it  was 
gentle  Miss  Lucy. 

"I  guess,"  she  said,  "I  could,  if  we  all  do  it.  I 
know  mother  would  of." 

"Yes,"  Miss  Viny  nodded,  "mother  would  of." 

Libbie  Liberty  stood  for  a  moment  with  com- 
pressed lips. 

"It  seems  like  not  payin'  respect  to  mother,"  she 
began;  and  then  shook  her  head.  "It  ain't  that," 
she  said;  "it's  only  missin'  her  when  we  begin  to 
step  around  the  kitchen,  bakin'  up  for  a  holiday." 

"  I  know — I  know,"  Calliope  said  again.  "That's 
why  I  said  for  you  to  come  over  in  my  kitchen.  You 
come  over  there  an'  stir  up  the  sunshine  cake,  too, 
an'  bake  it  in  my  oven,  so's  we  can  hev  it  et  hot. 
Will  you  do  that?" 


38  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

And  after  a  little  time  they  consented.  If  Calliope 
found  any  sick  or  poor,  they  would  do  that. 

"We  ain't  gettin'  many  i-dees  for  guests,"  Calliope 
said,  as  we  reached  the  street,  "but  we're  gettin' 
helpers,  anyway.  An'  some  dinner,  too." 

Then  we  went  to  the  house  of  Mis'  Holcomb-that- 
was-Mame-Bliss  —  called  so,  of  course,  to  distinguish 
her  from  the  "Other"  Holcombs. 

"Don't  you  be  shocked  at  her,"  Calliope  warned 
me,  as  we  closed  Mis'  Holcomb's  gate  behind  us; 
"she's  dreadful  diff'r'nt  an'  bitter  since  Abigail  was 
married  last  month.  She's  got  hold  o'  some  kind  of 
a  Persian  book,  in  a  decorated  cover,  from  the  City; 
an'  now  she  says  your  soul  is  like  when  you  look  in 
a  lookin'-glass  —  that  there  ain't  really  nothin' 
there.  An'  that  the  world's  some  wind  an'  the  rest 
water,  an'  they  ain't  no  God  only  your  own  breath 
—  oh,  poor  Mis'  Holcomb!"  said  Calliope.  "I 
guess  she  ain't  rill  balanced.  But  we  ought  to  go 
to  see  her.  We  always  consult  Mis'  Holcomb  about 
everything." 

Poor  Mis'  Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss  !  I  can 
see  her  now  in  her  comfortable  dining  room,  where 
she  sat  cleaning  her  old  silver,  her  thin,  veined  hands 
as  fragile  as  her  grandmother's  spoons. 

"Of  course,  you  don't  know,"  she  said,  when 
Calliope  had  unfolded  her  plans,  "how  useless  it  all 
seems  to  me.  What's  the  use  —  I  keep  sayin'  to 


NOBODY  SICK,   NOBODY  POOR  39 

myself  now'-days ;  what's  the  use  ?  You  put  so 
much  pains  on  something  an'  then  it  goes  off  an* 
leaves  you.  Mebbe  it  dies,  an'  everything's  all 
wasted.  There  ain't  anything  to  tie  to.  It's  like 
lookin'  in  a  glass  all  the  while.  It's  seemin,'  it 
ain't  bein'.  We  ain't  certain  o'  nothin'  but  our 
breath,  an'  when  that  goes,  what  hev  you  got  ? 
What's  the  use  o'  plannin'  Thanksgivin'  for  any- 
body?" 

"Well,  if  you're  hungry,  it's  kind  o'  nice  to  get 
fed  up,"  said  Calliope,  crisply.  "Don't  you  know 
a  soul  that's  hungry,  Mame  Bliss?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  don't.  Nor  nobody  sick  in 
body." 

"Nobody  sick  in  body,"  Calliope  repeated  ab- 
sently. 

"Soul-sick  an'  soul-hungry  you  can't  feed  up," 
Mis'  Holcomb  added. 

"I  donno,"  said  Calliope,  thoughtfully,  " I  donno 
but  you  can." 

"No,"  Mis'  Holcomb  went  on;  "your  soul's  like 
yourself  in  the  glass:  they  ain't  anything  there." 

"I  donno,"  Calliope  said  again;  "some  mornin's 
when  I  wake  up  with  the  sun  shinin'  in,  I  can  feel 
my  soul  in  me  just  as  plain  as  plain." 

Mis'  Holcomb  sighed. 

"Life  looks  dreadful  footless  to  me,"  she  said. 


40  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

"Well,"  said  Calliope,  "sometimes  life  is  some 
like  hearin'  firecrackers  go  off  when  you  don't  feel 
up  to  shootin'  'em  yourself.  When  I'm  like  that, 
I  always  think  if  I'd  go  out  an'  buy  a  bunch  or  two, 
an'  get  somebody  to  give  me  a  match,  I  could  see 
more  sense  to  things.  Look  here,  Mame  Bliss; 
if  I  get  hold  o'  any  folks  to  give  the  dinner  for,  will 
you  help  me  some?" 

"Yes,"  Mis'  Holcomb  assented  half-heartedly, 
"I'll  help  you.  I  ain't  nobody  much  in  family, 
now  Abigail's  done  what  she  has.  They's  only 
Eppleby,  an'  he  won't  be  home  Thanksg'vin  this 
year.  So  I  ain't  nothin'  else  to  do." 

"That's  the  /-dee,"  said  Calliope,  heartily;  "if 
everything's  foolish,  it's  just  as  foolish  doin'  nothin' 
as  doin'  somethin'.  Will  you  bring  over  a  kettleful 
o'  boiled  potatoes  to  my  house  Thanksgivin'  noon  ? 
An'  mash  'em  an'  whip  'em  in  my  kitchen  ?  I'll 
hev  the  milk  to  put  in.  You  —  you  don't  cook  as 
much  as  some,  do  you,  Mame?" 

Did  Calliope  ask  her  that  purposely  ?  I  am 
almost  sure  that  she  did.  Mis'  Holcomb's  neck 
stiffened  a  little. 

"I  guess  I  can  cook  a  thing  or  two  beside  mash' 
potatoes,"  she  said,  and  thought  for  a  minute. 
"How'd  you  like  a  pan  o'  'scalloped  oysters  an'  some 
baked  marcaroni  with  plenty  o'  cheese?"  she  de- 
manded. 


NOBODY  SICK,   NOBODY  POOR  41 

"Sounds  like  it'd  go  down  awful  easy,"  admitted 
Calliope,  smiling.  "It's  just  what  we  need  to  carry 
the  dinner  off  full  sail,"  she  added  earnestly. 

"Well,  I  ain't  nothin'  else  to  do  an'  I'll  make  'em," 
Mis'  Holcomb  promised.  "Only  it  beats  me  who 
you  can  find  to  do  for.  If  you  don't  get  anybody, 
let  me  know  before  I  order  the  oysters." 

Calliope  stood  up,  her  little  wrinkled  face  aglow; 
and  I  wondered  at  her  confidence. 

"You  just  go  ahead  an'  order  your  oysters,"  she 
said.  "That  dinner's  goin'  to  come  off  Thanks- 
givin'  noon  at  twelve  o'clock.  An'  you  be  there 
to  help  feed  the  hungry,  Mame." 

When  we  were  on  the  street  again,  Calliope  looked 
at  me  with  her  way  of  shy  eagerness. 

"Could  you  hev  the  dinner  up  to  your  house,"  she 
asked  me,  "if  I  do  every  bit  o'  the  work?" 

"Why, Calliope,"  I  said,  amazed  at  her  persistence, 
"have  it  there,  of  course.  But  you  haven't  any 
guests  yet." 

She  nodded  at  me  through  the  falling  flakes. 

"You  say  you  ain't  got  much  to  be  thankful  for," 
she  said,  "so  I  thought  mebbe  you'd  put  in  the  time 
that  way.  Don't  you  worry  about  folks  to  eat  the 
dinner.  I'll  tell  Mis'  Holcomb  an'  the  others  to 
come  to  your  house  —  an'  I'll  get  the  food  an'  the 
folks.  Don't  you  worry !  An'  I'll  bring  my  water- 
melon pickles  an'  a  bowl  o'  cream  for  Mis'  Holcomb's 


42  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

potatoes,  an*  I'll  furnish  the  turkey  —  a  big  one. 
The  rest  of  us'll  get  the  dinner  in  your  kitchen 
Thanksgivin'  mornin'.  My!"  she  said,  "seems 
though  life's  smoothin'  out  fer  me  a'ready.  Good- 
by  —  it's  'most  noon." 

She  hurried  up  Daphne  Street  in  the  snow,  and  I 
turned  toward  my  lonely  house.  But  I  remember 
that  I  was  planning  how  I  would  make  my  table 
pretty,  and  how  I  would  add  a  delicacy  or  two  from 
the  City  for  this  strange  holiday  feast.  And  I  found 
myself  hurrying  to  look  over  certain  long-disused 
linen  and  silver,  and  to  see  whether  my  Cloth-o'- 
Gold  rose  might  be  counted  on  to  bloom  by  Thurs- 
day noon. 


IV 

COVERS   FOR   SEVEN 

"WE'LL  set  the  table  for  seven  folks,"  said  Cal- 
liope, at  my  house  on  Thanksgiving  morning. 

"Seven!"  I  echoed.  "But where  in  the  world  did 
you  ever  find  seven,  Calliope?" 

"  I  found  'em,"  she  answered.  "  I  knew  I  could  find 
hungry  folks  to  do  for  if  I  tried,  an'  I  found  'em. 
You'll  see.  I  sha'n't  say  another  word.  They'll 
be  here  by  twelve,  sharp.  Did  the  turkey  come?" 

Yes,  the  turkey  had  come,  and  almost  as  she 
spoke  the  dear  Liberty  sisters  arrived  to  dress  and 
stuff  it,  and  to  make  ready  the  pan  of  custard,  and 
to  "stir  up"  the  sunshine  cake.  I  could  guess  how 
the  pleasant  bustle  in  my  kitchen  would  hurt  them 
by  its  holiday  air,  and  I  carried  them  off  to  see  my 
Cloth-o'-Gold  rose  which  had  opened  in  the  night, 
to  the  very  crimson  heart  of  it.  And  I  told  them 
of  the  seven  guests  whom,  after  all,  Calliope  had 
actually  contrived  to  marshal  to  her  dinner.  And 
in  the  midst  of  our  almost  gay  speculation  on  this, 
they  went  at  their  share  of  the  task. 

43 


44  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

The  three  moved  about  their  offices  gravely  at 
first,  Libbie  Liberty  keeping  her  back  to  us  as  she 
worked,  Miss  Viny  scrupulously  intent  on  the  deli- 
cate clatter  of  the  egg-beater,  Miss  Lucy  with  eyes 
downcast  on  the  sage  she  rolled.  I  noted  how  Cal- 
liope made  little  excuses  to  pass  near  each  of  them, 
with  now  a  touch  of  the  hand  and  now  a  pat  on  a 
shoulder,  and  all  the  while  she  talked  briskly  of 
ways  and  means  and  recipes,  and  should  there  be 
onions  in  the  dressing  or  should  there  not  be  ?  We 
took  a  vote  on  this  and  were  about  to  chop  the  onions 
in  when  Mis'  Holcomb's  little  maid  arrived  at  my 
kitchen  door  with  a  bowl  of  oysters  which  Mis' 
Holcomb  had  had  left  from  the  'scallop,  an'  wouldn't 
we  like  'em  in  the  stuffin'  ?  Roast  turkey  stuffed  with 
oysters !  I  saw  Libbie  Liberty's  eyes  brighten  so 
delightedly  that  I  brought  out  a  jar  of  seedless  raisins 
and  another  of  preserved  cherries  to  add  to  the 
custard,  and  then  a  bag  of  sweet  almonds  to  be 
blanched  and  split  for  the  cake  o'  sunshine.  Surely, 
one  of  us  said,  the  seven  guests  could  be  preparing 
for  their  Thanksgiving  dinner  with  no  more  zest  than 
we  were  putting  into  that  dinner  for  their  sakes. 

"Seven  guests  !"  we  said  over  and  again.  "Calliope, 
how  did  you  do  it  ?  When  everybody  says  there's 
nobody  in  Friendship  that's  either  sick  or  poor?" 

"Nobody  sick,  nobody  poor!"  Calliope  exclaimed, 
piling  a  dish  with  watermelon  pickles.     "Land,  you 


COVERS  FOR   SEVEN  45 

might  think  that  was  the  town  motto.  Well,  the 
town  don't  know  everything.  Don't  you  ask  me 
so  many  questions." 

Before  eleven  o'clock  Mis'  Mayor  Uppers  tapped 
at  my  back  door,  with  two  deep-dish  cherry  pies 
in  a  basket,  and  a  row  of  her  delicate,  feathery 
sponge  cakes  and  a  jar  of  pineapple  and  pie-plant 
preserves  "to  chink  in."  She  drew  a  deep  breath 
and  stood  looking  about  the  kitchen. 

"Throw  off  your  things  an'  help,  Mis'  Uppers," 
Calliope  admonished  her,  one  hand  on  the  cellar 
door.  "I'm  just  goin'  down  for  some  sweet  po- 
tatoes Mis'  Holcomb  sent  over  this  morning,  an* 
you  might  get  'em  ready,  if  you  will.  We  ain't  goin' 
to  let  you  off  now,  spite  of  what  you've  done  for  us." 

So  Mis'  Mayor  Uppers  hung  up  her  shawl  and 
washed  the  sweet  potatoes.  And  my  kitchen  was 
fragrant  with  spices  and  flavourings  and  an  odorous 
oven,  and  there  was  no  end  of  savoury  business  to 
be  at.  I  found  myself  glad  of  the  interest  of  these 
others  in  the  day  and  glad  of  the  stirring  in  my 
lonely  house.  Even  if  their  bustle  could  not  lessen 
my  own  loneliness,  it  was  pleasant,  I  said  to  myself, 
to  see  them  quicken  with  interest;  and  the  whole 
affair  entertained  my  infinite  leisure.  After  all, 
I  was  not  required  to  be  thankful.  I  merely  loaned 
my  house,  cosey  in  its  glittering  drifts  of  turkey 
feathers,  and  the  day  was  no  more  and  no  less  to 


46  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

me  than  before,  though  I  own  that  I  did  feel  more 
than  an  amused  interest  in  Calliope's  guests.  Whom, 
in  Friendship,  had  she  found  "to  do  for,"  I  detected 
myself  speculating  with  real  interest  as  in  the 
dining  room,  with  one  and  another  to  help  me, 
I  made  ready  my  table.  My  prettiest  dishes  and 
silver,  the  Cloth-o'-Gold  rose,  and  my  yellow- 
shaded  candles  made  little  auxiliary  welcomes. 
Whoever  Calliope's  guests  were,  we  would  do  them 
honour  and  give  them  the  best  we  had.  And  in  the 
midst  of  all  came  from  the  City  the  box  with  my  gift 
of  hothouse  fruit  and  a  rosebud  for  every  plate. 

"Calliope  !"  I  cried,  as  I  went  back  to  the  kitchen, 
"Calliope,  it's  nearly  twelve  now.  Tell  us  who  the 
guests  are,  or  we  won't  finish  dinner!" 

Calliope  laughed  and  shook  her  head  and  opened 
the  door  for  Mis'  Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss, 
who  entered,  followed  by  her  little  maid,  both  laden 
with  good  things. 

"I  prepared  for  seven,"  Mis'  Holcomb  said. 
"That  was  the  word  you  sent  me  —  but  where  you 
got  your  seven  sick  an'  poor  in  Friendship  beats  me. 
I'll  stay  an'  help  for  a  while  —  but  to  me  it  all 
seems  like  so  much  monkey  work." 

We  worked  with  a  will  that  last  half-hour,  and 
the  spirit  of  the  kitchen  came  upon  them  all.  I 
watched  them,  amused  and  pleased  at  Mis'  Mayor 
Uppers's  flushed  anxiety  over  the  sweet  potatoes,  at 


COVERS   FOR   SEVEN  47 

Libbie  Liberty  furiously  basting  the  turkey,  and 
at  Miss  Lucy  exclaiming  with  delight  as  she  un- 
wrapped the  rosebuds  from  their  moss.  But  I 
think  that  Mis'  Holcomb  pleased  me  most,  for 
with  the  utensils  of  housewifery  in  her  hands  she 
seemed  utterly  to  have  forgotten  that  there  is  no 
use  in  anything  at  all.  This  was  not  wonderful  in 
the  presence  of  such  a  feathery  cream  of  mashed 
potatoes  and  such  aromatic  coffee  as  she  made. 
There  was  something  to  tie  to.  Those  were  real, 
at  any  rate,  and  beyond  all  seeming. 

Just  before  twelve  Calliope  caught  off  her  apron 
and  pulled  down  her  sleeves. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "I'm  going  to  welcome  the 
guests.  I  can  —  can't  I  ?"  she  begged  me.  "Every- 
thing's all  ready  but  putting  on.  I  won't  need  to 
come  out  here  again;  when  I  ring  the  bell  on  the 
sideboard,  dish  it  up  an'  bring  it  in,  all  together  — 
turkey  ahead  an'  vegetables  followin'.  Mis'  Hol- 
comb, you  help  'em,  won't  you  ?  An'  then  you  can 
leave  if  you  want.  Talk  about  an  old-fashion' 
Thanksgivin'.  My!" 

"Who  has  she  got?"  Libbie  Liberty  burst  out, 
basting  the  turkey.  "I  declare,  I'm  nervous  as 
a  witch,  I'm  so  curious ! " 

And  then  the  clock  struck  twelve,  and  a  minute 
after  we  heard  Calliope  tinkle  a  silvery  summons 
on  the  call-bell. 


48  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

I  remember  that  it  was  Mis'  Holcomb  herself  — 
to  whom  nothing  mattered  —  who  rather  lost  her 
head  as  we  served  our  feast,  and  who  was  about 
putting  in  dishes  both  her  oysters  and  her  macaroni 
instead  of  carrying  in  the  fair,  brown,  smoking  bake 
pans.  But  at  last  we  were  ready  —  Mis'  Holcomb 
at  our  head  with  the  turkey,  the  others  following 
with  both  hands  filled,  and  I  with  the  coffee-pot. 
As  they  gave  the  signal  to  start,  something  —  it 
may  have  been  the  mystery  before  us,  or  the  good 
things  about  us,  or  the  mere  look  of  the  Thanks- 
giving snow  on  the  window-sills  —  seemed  to  catch 
at  the  hearts  of  them  all,  and  they  laughed  a  little, 
almost  joyously,  those  five  for  whom  joy  had 
seemed  done,  and  I  found  myself  laughing  too. 

So  we  six  filed  into  the  dining  room  to  serve 
whomever  Calliope  had  found  "to  do  for."  I 
wonder  that  I  had  not  guessed  before.  There 
stood  Calliope  at  the  foot  of  the  table,  with  its 
lighted  candles  and  its  Cloth-o'-Gold  rose,  and  the 
other  six  chairs  were  quite  vacant. 

"Sit  down!"  Calliope  cried  to  us,  with  tears  and 
laughter  in  her  voice.  "Sit  down,  all  six  of  you. 
Don't  you  see  ?  Didn't  you  know  ?  Ain't  we  soul- 
sick  an'  soul-hungry,  all  of  us  ?  An'  I  tell  you, 
this  is  goin'  to  do  our  souls  good  —  an'  our  stom- 
achs too!" 

Nobody  dropped  anything,  even  in  the  flood  of 


COVERS   FOR   SEVEN  49 

our  amazement.  We  managed  to  get  our  savoury 
burden  on  the  table,  and  some  way  we  found  our- 
selves in  the  chairs  —  I  at  the  head  of  my  table 
where  Calliope  led  me.  And  we  all  talked  at  once, 
exclaiming  and  questioning,  with  sudden  thanks- 
giving in  our  hearts  that  in  the  world  such  things 
may  be. 

"I  was  hungry  an*  sick,"  Calliope  was  telling, 
"  for  an  old-fashion*  Thanksgivin'  —  or  anything 
that'd  smooth  life  out  some.  But  I  says  to  myself, 
'It  looks  like  God  had  afflicted  us  by  not  givin'  us 
anybody  to  do  for/  An*  then  I  started  out  to  find 
some  poor  an'  some  sick  —  an'  each  one  o'  you 
knows  what  I  found.  An'  I  ask'  myself  before  I 
got  home  that  day,  'Why  not  them  an'  me  ?'  There's 
lots  o'  kinds  o'  things  to  do  on  Thanksgivin'  Day. 
Are  you  ever  goin'  to  forgive  me?" 

I  think  that  we  all  answered  at  once.  But  what 
we  all  meant  was  what  Mis'  Holcomb-that-was- 
Mame-Bliss  said,  as  she  sat  flushed  and  smiling 
behind  the  coffee-cups:  — 

"I  declare,  I  feel  something  like  I  ain't  felt  since 
I  don't  know  when!" 

And  Calliope  nodded  at  her. 

"I  guess  that's  your  soul,  Mame  Bliss,"  she  said. 
"  You  can  always  feel  it  if  you  go  to  work  an'  act 
as  if  you  got  one.  I'll  take  my  coffee  clear." 


THE    SHADOW    OF    GOOD    THINGS    TO    COME 

THE  Friendship  accommodation  reaches  the  vil- 
lage from  the  City  at  six  o'clock  at  night,  and  we  call 
the  train  the  Dick  Dasher,  because  Dick  Dasher  is 
its  engineer.  We  "come  out  on  the  Dick  Dasher" 
and  we  "go  in  on  the  Through";  but  the  Through 
is  a  kind  of  institution,  like  marriage,  while  the 
Dick  Dasher  is  a  thing  more  intimate,  like  one's 
wedding.  It  was  one  winter  night  on  the  latter 
that  I  hardly  heeded  what  I  overheard. 

"The  Lord  will  provide,  Delia,"  Doctor  June  was 
saying. 

"I  ain't  sure,"  came  a  piping  answer,  "as  they 
is  any  Lord.  An'  don't  you  tell  anybody  'bout 
seein'  me  on  this  train.  I'm  goin'  on  through  — 
west." 

"Thy  footfall  is  a  silver  thing, 
West  —  west  1" 

I  said  over  to  the  beat  of  the  wheels,  but  the  words 

5° 


THE   SHADOW   OF  GOOD  THINGS  TO   COME     51 

that  I  said  over  were  more  insistent  than  the  words 
that  I  heard.  I  was  watching  the  eyes  of  a  motor- 
car carrying  threads  of  streaming  light,  moving  near 
the  track,  swifter  than  the  train.  It  belonged,  as 
I  divined,  to  the  Proudfits  of  Friendship,  and  it 
was  carrying  Madame  Proudfit  and  her  daughter 
Clementina,  after  a  day  of  shopping  and  visiting  in 
the  town.  And  when  I  saw  them  returning  home 
in  this  airy  fashion,  —  as  if  they  were  the  soul  and 
I  in  the  stuffy  Dick  Dasher  were  the  body,  —  I 
renewed  a  certain  distaste  for  them,  since  in  their 
lives  these  Proudfits  seemed  goblin-like,  with  no 
interest  in  any  save  their  own  picturesque  Sittings. 
But  while  I  shrugged  at  myself  for  judging  them 
and  held  firmly  to  my  own  opinion,  as  one  will  do, 
I  was  conscious  all  the  time  of  the  gray  minister  in 
the  aisle  of  the  rocking  coach,  holding  clasped  in 
both  hands  his  big  carpet-bag  without  handles. 
Over  it  I  saw  him  looking  down  in  grieved  conster- 
nation at  the  little  woman  huddled  in  the  rush  seat. 

"No  Lord!"  he  said,  "no  Lord!  Why,  Delia 
More !  You  might  as  well  say  there  ain't  no  life 
in  your  own  bones." 

"So  they  isn't,"  she  answered  him  grimly.  "They 
keep  on  a-goin'  just  to  spite  me." 

"  Delia  More  —  De-lia.  More,"  the  wheels  beat 
out,  and  it  was  as  if  I  had  heard  the  name  often. 
Already  I  had  noticed  the  woman.  She  had  a  kind 


52  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

of  youth,  like  that  of  Calliope,  who  had  journeyed 
in  town  on  the  Through  that  morning  and  who  had 
somewhat  mysteriously  asked  me  not  to  say  that 
she  had  gone  away.  But  Calliope's  persistent 
youthfulness  gives  her  a  claim  upon  one,  while  on 
this  woman  whom  Doctor  June  perplexedly  re- 
garded, her  stifled  youth  imposed  a  forlorn  aloofness, 
made  the  more  pathetic  by  her  prettiness. 

No  one  but  the  doctor  himself  was  preparing  to 
leave  the  train  at  Friendship.  He  balanced  in 
the  aisle  alone,  while  the  few  occupants  of  the  car 
sat  without  speaking  —  men  dozing,  children  pad- 
ding on  the  panes,  a  woman  twisting  her  thin  hair 
tight  and  high.  Doctor  June  looked  at  those 
nearest  to  be  sure  of  their  tired  self-absorption,  but 
as  for  me,  who  sat  very  near,  I  think  he  had  long 
ago  decided  that  I  kept  my  own  thoughts  and  no 
others,  since  sometimes  I  had  forgotten  to  give  him 
back  a  greeting.  So  it  was  in  a  fancied  security 
which  I  was  loath  to  be  violating,  that  he  opened  his 
great  carpet-bag  and  took  out  a  book  to  lay  on  the 
girl's  knee. 

"Open  it,"  he  commanded  her. 

I  saw  the  contour  of  her  face  tightened  by  her 
swiftly  set  lips  as  she  complied. 

"Point  your  finger,"  he  went  on  peremptorily. 
She  must  have  obeyed,  for  in  a  kind  of  unwilling 
eagerness  she  bent  over  the  page,  and  the  doctor 


THE   SHADOW   OF   GOOD  THINGS   TO   COME     53 

stooped,  and  together  in  the  blurring  light  of  the 
kerosene  lamp  in  the  roof  of  the  coach  they  made 
out  something. 

"...  the  law  having  a  shadow  of  good  things 
to  come,  and  not  the  very  image  of  the  things  .  .  ." 
I  unwillingly  caught,  and  yet  not  wholly  unwill- 
ingly either.  And  though  I  watched,  as  if  much  de- 
pended upon  it,  the  great  motor-car  of  the  Proudfits 
vanishing  before  us  into  the  dark,  I  could  not  for- 
bear to  glance  at  the  doctor,  who  was  nodding,  his 
kind  face  quickening.  But  the  girl  lifted  her  eyes 
and  laughed  with  deliberate  scepticism. 

"  I  don't  take  any  stock,"  she  said,  and  within  me 
it  was  as  if  something  answered  to  her  bitterness. 

"No  —  no.  Mebbe  not,"  Doctor  June  com- 
mented with  perfect  cheerfulness.  "Some  folks 
take  fresh  air,  and  some  folks  like  to  stay  shut  up 
tight.  But  —  'the  shadow  of  good  things  to  come.' 
I'd  take  that  much  stock  if  I  was  you,  Delia." 

As  he  laid  the  book  back  in  his  bag,  the  train  was 
jolting  across  the  switches  beside  the  gas  house, 
and  the  lights  of  Friendship  were  all  about  the  track. 

"Why  don't  you  get  off?"  he  reiterated,  in  his 
tone  a  descending  scale  of  simple  hospitality.  "  Come 
to  our  house  and  stop  a  spell.  Come  for  tea,"  he 
added;  "I  happen  to  know  we're  goin'  to  hev  hot 
griddle-cakes  an*  sausage  gravy." 

She  shook  her  head  sharply  and  in  silence. 


54  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

Doctor  June  stood  for  a  moment  meditatively  look* 
ing  down  at  her. 

"There's  a  friend  of  yours  at  our  house  to-day, 
for  all  day,"  he  observed. 

"I  ain't  any  friends,"  replied  the  girl,  obstinately, 
"without  you  mean  use9  to  be.  An'  I  don't 
know  if  I  had  then,  either." 

"Yes.  Yes,  you  have,  Delia,"  said  Doctor  June, 
kindly.  "He  was  asking  about  you  last  time  he  was 
here  —  kind  of  indirect." 

"  ffho?"  she  demanded,  but  it  was  as  if  some- 
thing within  her  wrung  the  question  from  her  against 
her  will. 

"Abel  Halsey,"  Doctor  June  told  her,  "Abel 
Halsey.  Remember  him  ?" 

Instead  of  answering  she  looked  out  the  window 
at  the  Friendship  Depot  platform,  and :  — 

"Ain't  he  a  big  minister  in  the  City?"  I  barely 
heard  her  ask. 

"No,"  said  Doctor  June;  "dear  me,  no.  Abel's 
still  gypsyin'  it  off  in  the  hills.  I  expect  he's  out 
there  by  the  depot  with  the  busses  now,  come  to 
meet  me  in  his  buggy.  Better  let  him  take  us  all 
home  to  griddle-cakes,  Delia?"  he  pressed  her 
wistfully. 

"I  couldn't,"  she  said  briefly.  And,  as  he  put 
out  his  hand  silently,  "  Don't  you  let  anybody  know't 
you  saw  me!"  she  charged  him  again. 


THE   SHADOW   OF   GOOD  THINGS  TO  COME     55 

When  he  was  gone,  and  the  train  was  slackening 
in  the  station,  she  moved  close  to  the  window.  If 
I  had  been  lonely  ...  I  must  have  caught  a 
certain  cheer  in  the  look  of  the  station  and  in  the 
magnificent,  cosmic  leisure  of  the  idlers:  in  Pho- 
tographer Jimmy  Sturgis,  in  his  leather  coat,  with 
one  eye  shut,  stamping  a  foot  and  waiting  for  the 
mail-bag;  in  old  Tillie,  known  up  and  down  the 
world  for  her  waffles,  and  perpetually  peering  out 
between  shelves  of  plants  and  wax  fruit  set  across 
the  window  of  the  "eating-house";  in  Peleg  Bemus, 
wood-cutter,  stumping  about  the  platform  on  his 
wooden  leg,  wearing  modestly  the  prestige  he  had 
won  by  his  flute-playing  and  by  his  advantage  of 
New  York  experience  —  "a  janitor  in  the  far  east, 
he  was,"  Timothy  Toplady  had  once  told  me;  in 
Timothy  Toplady  himself,  who  always  meets  the 
trains,  but  for  no  reason  unless  to  say  an  amazed 
and  reproachful  —  "  Blisterin'  Benson  !  not  a  soul 
wants  off  here";  and  in  Abel  Halsey,  that  itin- 
erant preacher,  of  whom  Doctor  June  had  spoken. 
Abel  was  a  man  of  grace,  Bible-taught,  passioning 
for  service,  but  within  him  his  gentle  soul  burned  to 
travel,  and  his  white  horse,  Major  Mary,  and  his 
road  wagon  and  his  route  to  the  door  of  many  a 
country  church  were  the  sole  satisfactions  of  his 
wanderlust;  and  next  to  these  was  his  delight  to 
be  at  a  railway  station  when  any  train  arrived, 


56  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

savouring  the  moment  of  some  silent  familiarity 
with  distance.  I  delighted  in  them  all,  and  that 
night,  as  I  looked,  I  wondered  how  it  would  seem 
to  me  if  I  were  returning  to  it  after  many  years; 
and  I  could  imagine  how  my  heart  would  ache. 

As  the  train  moved  on,  the  girl  whom  Doctor 
June  had  called  Delia  More  turned  her  head,  mani- 
festly to  follow  for  a  little  way  each  vanishing  light 
and  figure;  and  as  the  conductor  came  through 
the  car  and  she  spoke  to  him,  I  saw  that  she  was 
in  a  tingle  of  excitement. 

"You  sure,"  she  asked,  "that  you  stop  to  the 
canal  draw  ?" 

"Uh?"  said  the  conductor,  and  when  he  com- 
prehended, "Every  time,"  he  said,  "every  time. 
You  be  ready  when  she  whistles."  He  hesitated, 
manifestly  in  some  curiosity.  "They  ain't  a  house 
in  a  mile  Pom  there,  though,"  he  told  her. 

"I  know  that,"  she  gave  back  crisply. 

When  I  heard  her  speaking  of  the  canal  draw,  I 
found  myself  wondering;  for  a  woman  is  not  above 
wonder.  There,  where  the  trains  stopped  just  per- 
ceptibly I  myself  was  wont  to  leave  them  for  the 
sake  of  the  mile  walk  on  the  quiet  highroad  to  my 
house.  That,  too,  though  it  chanced  to  be  night, 
for  I  am  not  afraid.  But  I  wondered  the  more 
because  other  women  do  fear,  and  also  because  mine 
was  the  only  house  between  the  canal  draw  and 


THE   SHADOW   OF  GOOD  THINGS  TO  COM*     57 

Friendship  Village;  and  manifestly  the  shortest  way 
to  reach  the  village  would  have  been  to  alight  at 
the  station.  But  I  held  my  peace,  for  the  affairs  of 
others  should  be  to  those  others  an  efficient  disguise; 
and  moreover,  the  greater  part  of  one's  wonder  is 
wont  to  come  to  naught. 

Yet,  as  I  seemed  to  follow  this  woman  out  upon 
the  snow  and  the  train  kept  impersonally  on  across 
the  meadows,  I  could  not  but  see  that  her  bags  were 
many  and  looked  heavy,  and  twice  she  set  them 
down  to  r°?rrange.  I  think  a  ghost  of  the  road 
could  have  done  no  less  than  ask  to  help  her.  And 
I  did  this  with  an  abruptness  of  which  I  am  unwill- 
ing master,  though  indeed  I  had  no  need  to  assume 
impatience,  for  I  saw  that  my  quiet  walk  was  spoiled. 

When  I  spoke  to  her,  she  started  and  shrank 
away;  but  there  was  an  austerity  in  the  lonely  white 
road  and  in  the  country  silence  which  must  have 
chilled  a  woman  like  her;  and  her  bags  were  many 
and  seemed  heavy. 

"Much  obliged  to  you,"  she  said  indistinctly. 
"I'd  just  as  li've  you  should  take  the  basket,  if  you 


want." 


So  I  lifted  the  basket  and  trudged  beside  her, 
hoping  very  much  that  she  would  not  talk.  For 
though  for  my  own  comfort  I  would  walk  far  to 
avoid  treading  on  a  nest,  or  a  worm,  or  a  magenta 
flower  (and  I  loathe  magenta),  yet  I  am  often  blame* 


58  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

ful  enough  to  wound  through  the  sheerest  bungling 
those  who  talk  to  me  when  I  would  rather  be  silent. 

The  night  was  one  clinging  to  the  way  of  Autumn, 
and  as  yet  with  no  Winter  hinting.  The  air  was 
mild  and  dry,  and  the  sky  was  starry.  I  am  not 
ashamed  that  on  a  quiet  highroad  on  a  starry  night 
I  love  to  be  silent,  and  even  to  forget  concerns  of 
my  own  which  seem  pressing  in  the  publicity  of  the 
sun;  but  I  am  ashamed,  I  own,  to  have  been  called 
to  myself  that  night  by  a  little  choking  breath  of 
haste. 

"  I  can't  go  —  so  fast,"  my  companion  said 
humbly;  "you  might  jest  —  set  the  basket  down 
anywheres.  I  can  - 

But  I  think  that  she  can  hardly  have  heard  my 
apology,  for  she  stood  where  she  had  halted,  staring 
away  from  me.  We  were  opposite  the  cemetery 
lying  in  its  fence  of  field  stone  and  whitewashed  rails. 

"O  my  soul,  my  soul!"  I  heard  her  say.  "I'd 
forgot  the  graveyard,  or  I  couldn't  never  'a'  come 
this  way." 

At  that  she  went  on,  her  feet  quickening,  as  I 
thought,  without  her  will;  and  she  kept  her  face 
turned  to  me,  so  that  it  should  be  away  from  that 
whitewashed  fence.  And  now  because  of  the  wound 
she  had  shown  me,  I  walked  a  little  apart  in  the 
middle  of  the  road  for  my  attempt  at  sympathy. 
So  we  came  to  the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  there  the 


THE   SHADOW   OF   GOOD  THINGS   TO  COME     59 

dark  suddenly  yielded  up  the  distance.  The  lamps 
of  the  village  began  to  signal,  lights  dotted  the  fields 
and  gathered  in  a  cosey  blur  in  the  valley,  and  half 
a  mile  to  westward  the  headlight  that  marked  the 
big  Toplady  barn  and  the  little  Toplady  house 
shone  out  as  if  some  one  over  there  were  saying 
something. 

"You  live  here  in  Friendship  ?"  the  girl  demanded 
abruptly. 

I  could  show  her  my  house  a  little  way  before  us. 

"Ever  go  inside  the  graveyard?"  she  asked. 

Sometimes  I  do  go  there,  and  at  that  answer  she 
walked  nearer  to  me  and  spoke  eagerly. 

"Air  all  the  tombstones  standin'  up  straight, 
do  you  know?"  she  said.  "Hev  any  o'  their  head- 
stones fell  down  on  'em  ?" 

This  I  could  answer  too,  definitely  enough;  for 
Friendship  Cemetery,  by  the  vigilance  of  the  Married 
Ladies'  Cemetery  Improvement  Sodality,  is  kept  in 
no  less  scrupulous  order  than  the  Friendship  parlours. 

"Well,  that's  a  relief,"  she  said;  "I  couldn't 
get  it  out  o'  my  head."  Then,  because  she  seemed 
of  those  on  whom  silence  lays  a  certain  imaginary 
demand,  "My  mother  an'  father  an'  sister's  buried 
there,"  she  explained.  "They're  in  there.  They 
all  died  when  I  was  gone.  An'  I  got  the  notion  that 
their  headstones  had  tipped  over  on  to  'em.  Or 
Aunt  Cornie  More's,  maybe." 


60  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

Aunt  Cornie  More.  I  knew  that  name,  for  they 
had  told  me  about  her  in  Friendship,  so  that  her 
name,  and  that  of  the  Oldmoxons,  in  whose  former 
house  I  lived,  and  many  others  were  like  folk  whom 
one  passes  often  and  remembers.  I  had  been  told  how 
Aunt  Cornie  More  had  made  her  own  shroud  from 
her  crocheted  parlour  curtains,  lest  these  fall  to  a 
later  wife  of  her  octogenarian  husband;  and  how 
as  she  lay  in  her  coffin  the  curtain's  shell-stitch 
parrot  "come  right  acrost  her  chest."  This  woman 
beside  me  had  called  her  "Aunt"  Cornie  More. 
And  then  I  remembered  the  name  which  Doctor 
June  had  spoken  on  the  train  and  the  wheels  had 
measured. 

"Delia  More!"  I  said,  involuntarily,  and  re- 
gretted it  as  soon  as  I  had  spoken.  But,  indeed,  it 
was  as  if  some  legend  woman  of  the  place  walked 
suddenly  beside  me,  like  the  quick. 

Who  in  Friendship  had  not  heard  the  name,  and 
who,  save  one  who  keeps  her  own  thoughts  and 
forgets  to  give  back  greeting,  would  not  on  the  in- 
stant have  remembered  it  ?  Delia  More's  step- 
sister, Jennie  Crapwell,  had  been  betrothed  to 
a  carpenter  of  Friendship,  and  he  was  at  work  on 
their  house  when,  a  month  before  the  wedding-day, 
Delia  and  that  young  carpenter  had  "run  away." 
Who  in  Friendship  could  not  tell  that  story  ?  But 
before  I  had  made  an  end  of  murmuring  something — 


THE   SHADOW   OF   GOOD  THINGS   TO   COME     6r 

"I  might  'a'  known  they  hadn't  done  talkin'  yet," 
Delia  More  said  bitterly.  "They  say  it  was  like 
that  when  Calliope  Marsh's  beau  run  off  with  some- 
body else,  —  for  ten  years  the  town  et  it  for  cake. 
Well,  they  ain't  any  of 'em  goin'  to  get  a  look  at  me. 
I  don't  give  anybody  the  chance  to  show  me  the 
cold  shoulder.  You  can  tell  'em  I  was  here  if  you 
want.  They  can  scare  the  children  with  it." 

"I  won't  tell,"  I  said. 

She  looked  at  me. 

"Well,  I  can't  help  it  if  you  do,"  she  returned. 
"Pm  glad  enough  to  speak  to  somebody,  gettin' 
back  so.  It's  fourteen  year.  An'  I  was  fair  body- 
sick  to  see  the  place  again." 

At  this  she  asked  about  Friendship  folk,  and  I  an- 
swered as  best  I  might,  though  of  what  she  inquired  I 
knew  little,  and  what  I  did  know  was  footless  enough 
for  human  comfort.  As  to  the  Topladys,  for  example, 
I  had  no  knowledge  of  that  one  who  had  earned 
his  money  in  bricks  and  had  later  married  a 
"  foreigner  " ;  but  I  knew  Mis'  Amanda,  that  she  had 
hands  dimpled  like  a  baby  giant's,  and  that  she 
carried  a  blue  parasol  all  winter  to  keep  the  sun 
from  her  eyes.  I  could  not  tell  whether  Liddy 
Ember  had  been  able  to  afford  skilled  treatment 
for  her  poor,  queer,  pretty  little  sister,  but  I  knew 
that  Ellen  Ember,  with  her  crown  of  bright  hair, 
went  about  Friendship  streets  singing  aloud,  and 


62  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

leaping  up  to  catch  at  the  low  branches  of  the  curb 
elms,  and  that  she  was  as  picturesque  as  a  beautiful 
grotesque  on  a  page  of  sober  text.  I  had  not  learned 
where  the  Oldmoxons  had  moved,  but  I  knew  of 
them  that  they  had  left  me  a  huge  fireplace  in  every 
room  of  my  house.  I  could  have  repeated  little 
about  Mis'  Holcomb-that-was-Marne-Bliss,  save 
that  her  black  week-day  cloak  was  lined  with  wine 
broadcloth,  and  that  she  wore  it  wrong  side  out- 
ward for  "best."  And  of  whether  Abigail  Arnold's 
children  had  turned  out  well  or  ill,  I  was  profoundly 
ignorant;  but  I  remembered  that  she  had  caused 
a  loaf  of  bread  to  be  carved  on  the  monument  of 
her  husband,  the  home  baker.  And  so  on.  But 
these  were  not  matters  of  wThich  I  could  talk  to  the 
hungry  woman  beside  me. 

Then,  to  my  amazement,  when  I  mentioned  the 
Proudfits,  —  those  great  and  rich  Proudfits  whose 
motor  had  raced  by  our  train,  —  Delia  More  would 
have  none  of  them. 

"I  do*  want  to  hear  about  'em,"  she  said.  "I 
know  about  'em.  I  use'  to  play  with  Miss  Clem- 
entina an'  Miss  Linda  when  we  were  little  things. 
I  use'  to  live  with  the  Proudfits  then,  an'  go  to  school. 
They  were  good  to  me  —  time  an'  time  again  they've 
told  me  their  home  was  mine,  too.  But  now  —  it 
wouldn't  be  the  same.  I  know  'em.  They  always 
were  cruel  proud  an'  cruel  pious.  Mis'  Proudfit, 


THE   SHADOW   OF   GOOD  THINGS   TO   COME     63 

she  use'  to  set  up  goodness  an'  worship  it  like  a  little 
god." 

This  judgment  startled  me,  and  yet  to  its  import 
I  secretly  assented.  For  though  I  barely  had 
their  acquaintance,  Madame  Proudfit  and  her 
daughter  Clementina  were  thorns  to  me  too,  so  that 
I  had  had  no  pleasure  in  giving  them  back  their 
greetings.  Perhaps  it  was  that  they  alone  in  Friend- 
ship sounded  for  me  a  note  of  other  days  —  but 
whatever  it  was,  they  were  thorns  to  me;  and  I 
remember  how,  once  more,  something  within  me 
seemed  to  answer  to  this  woman's  bitterness. 

None  the  less,  since  of  the  Proudfits  I  could  give 
her  some  fragment  of  account,  I  did  so,  to  forge  for 
Delia  More  what  link  I  might  between  her  present 
and  her  past.  And  it  was  knowledge  which  all 
Friendship  shared. 

"You  knew,"  I  said,  "that  Miss  Linda  does  not 
come  here  now,  because  she  married  against  the 
wish  of  her  family." 

Delia  More  looked  up  at  me.  But  though  I  saw 
that  now  she  softened  somewhat,  I  had  no  relish 
for  giving  to  her  anything  of  the  sad  romance  of 
beautiful  Linda  Proudfit  (as  they  said)  and  the  poor 
young  clerk  of  nobody  knew  where,  who,  a  dozen 
years  before,  had  fled  away  together  "into  the 


storm." 


Then  there  is  Calliope  Marsh,"  I  ventured,  to 


64  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

turn  my  thought  not  less  than  hers.  But  Delia 
More  did  not  answer,  and  at  this  I  was  puzzled, 
for  I  think  that  Calliope  has  lived  in  Friendship 
since  the  beginning,  when  she  and  Liddy  Ember 
were  partners  in  their  little  "modiste"  shop.  "You 
will  recall  Calliope?"  I  pressed  the  matter. 

And  at  that,  "Yes.  Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  and 
would  say  no  more.  And  because  Calliope  had 
forbidden  me,  I  did  not  mention  that  I  had  seen 
her  on  the  train  that  morning,  and  that  she  was 
absent  from  Friendship,  but  it  grieved  me  that  this 
stranger  should  be  indifferent  to  anything  about 
her. 

I  would  have  passed  my  own  gate,  because  the 
basket  was  heavy  and  because  I  knew  that  the 
girl  was  crying.  But  she  remembered  how  I  had 
shown  her  my  house,  and  there  she  detained  me 
and  caught  at  her  basket,  in  haste  to  be  gone. 
So  I,  who  feel  upon  me  a  weak  necessity  to  do  a 
bidding,  watched  her  go  down  the  still  road;  yet 
I  could  not  let  her  go  away  quite  like  that,  and  before 
I  had  meant  to  do  so  I  called  to  her. 

"Delia  More!"  I  said  —  as  familiarly  as  if  she 
had  been  some  other  expression  of  myself. 

I  saw  her  stop,  but  I  did  not  go  forward.  I  lifted 
my  voice  a  little,  for  by  the  distance  between  us  I 
was  less  ill  at  ease  than  I  am  in  the  usual  personalities 
of  comfort. 


THE    SHADOW   OF   GOOD   THINGS   TO   COME     65 

"I  heard  that  on  the  train,"  I  said  then  awk- 
wardly,— and  I  was  the  more  awkward  that  I  was 
not  persuaded  of  any  reason  in  my  words,  —  "that 
about  'the  shadow  of  good  things  to  come/  Maybe 
it  meant  something." 

Delia  More's  thin,  high-pitched  voice  came  back 
to  me,  expressing  all  my  unvoiced  doubt. 

"Tisn't  like,"  she  said.  "I  never  take  any 
stock." 

Then  I  looked  at  my  dark  house  in  a  kind  of 
consternation  lest  it  had  heard  me  trying  to  give 
comfort,  for  within  those  walls  I  had  sometimes 
spoken  almost  as  this  woman  spoke.  But  it  oc- 
curred to  me  that  even  the  drowned  should  throw 
immaterial  ropes  to  any  who  struggle  in  dark 
waters. 

It  will  not  be  necessary,  I  hope,  to  say  that  I  fol- 
lowed Delia  More  that  night  from  no  faintest  wish 
to  know  what  might  happen  to  her.  For  I  have 
a  weak  desire  for  peace  of  mind,  and  I  would  rather 
have  forgotten  her  story.  I  followed  because  the 
quiet  highroad  was  so  profoundly  lonely,  and  the 
country  silence  is  ambiguous,  and  I  cannot  bear 
to  think  of  a  woman  abroad  alone  in  the  dark.  I 
cannot  bear  to  think  of  myself  abroad  alone  in  the 
dark,  though  I  go  quite  without  fear;  but  certain 
other  women  have  fear,  and  this  one  was  crying. 
I  kept  well  behind  her,  and  as  soon  as  she  reached 


66  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

the  village,  I  meant  to  lose  sight  of  her  and  return, 
for  a  village  is  guardian  enough.  But  when  we 
had  passed  the  bleak  meadow  of  the  slaughter-house 
and  the  wide,  wet-smelling  wood  yard  and  had 
reached  the  first  cottage  on  Daphne  Street,  I  was 
startled  to  see  her  unlatch  that  cottage  gate  and 
enter  the  yard.  And  I  was  suddenly  sadly  ap- 
prehensive, for  the  cottage  was  the  home  of  Calliope, 
who  that  morning  had  left  the  village  and  had  asked 
me  to  say  nothing  about  it.  What  if  this  poor 
creature  had  fled  to  Calliope  for  sanctuary,  only 
to  find  locked  doors  ?  So  I  waited  in  the  shadow 
of  a  warehouse  like  a  bandit;  and  I  raged  at  the 
thought  of  having  possibly  to  harbour  this  stranger 
among  the  books  of  my  quiet  home. 

Then  suddenly  I  saw  a  light  shining  brightly  in 
Calliope  Marsh's  cottage,  and  some  one  wearing 
a  hat  came  swiftly  and  drew  down  a  shade.  On 
the  instant  the  matter  was  clear  to  me,  who  have  a 
genius  for  certain  ways  of  a  busybody.  Calliope 
must  have  known  that  this  poor  girl  was  coming; 
Calliope's  warning  to  me  to  keep  silence  must  have 
been  a  way  of  protection  to  her.  And  here  to  Cal- 
liope's cottage  Delia  More  had  come  creeping, 
whom  all  Friendship  would  hold  in  righteous  dis- 
taste. But  I  alone  of  all  Friendship  knew  that 
she  was  here,  "fair  body-sick  to  see  the  place  again." 

I  turned  back  to  the  highroad,  pretending  great 


THE  SHADOW  OF  GOOD  THINGS  TO   COME     67 

wrath  that  I  should  be  so  keen  over  the  doings  of  any, 
and  that  my  walk  should  have  been  spoiled  because 
of  her.  But  there  are  times  when  wrath  is  difficult. 
And  do  what  I  would,  there  came  some  singing 
in  my  blood,  and  like  a  busybody,  I  found  myself 
standing  still  in  the  road  fashioning  a  plan. 


VI 


STOCK 

IT  was  as  if  Time  and  the  Hour  were  my  allies, 
for  at  once  I  was  aware  of  a  cutter  driven  smartly 
from  the  village,  and  I  recognized  the  Topladys' 
sorrel.  At  my  signal  the  cutter  drew  up  beside  me, 
and  it  held  Timothy  Toplady  on  his  way  home  from 
the  station.  I  asked  him  what  o'clock  it  was,  and 
when  he  had  found  a  match  to  light  his  huge  silver 
watch  — 

"Blisterin'  Benson!"  he  said  ruefully,  "it's  ha'- 
past  six,  an*  me  late  with  the  chores  again.  I'm 
hauled  an'  sawed  if  it  hain't  always  ha'  past  six. 
They  don't  seem  to  be  no  times  in  between." 

"Mr.  Toplady,"  I  said  boldly,  "let  us  get  up  a 
surprise  party  on  Calliope  Marsh  —  you  and  Mrs. 
Toplady  and  me." 

I  had  learned  that  he  was  loath  to  oppose  a  sugges- 
tion and  that  he  always  preferred  to  agree,  but  I  had 
not  hoped  for  enthusiasm. 

"That's  the  /-dea,"  said  Timothy,  heartily.  "I 

68 


STOCK  69 

do  admire  a  su'prise.  But  what  I  think  is  this,"  he 
added,  "when'll  we  hev  it?" 

"To-night,"  I  proposed  boldly. 

"  Whew ! "  Timothy  whistled.  "  Sudden  for  Gen- 
eral —  eh  ?  Suits  me  —  suits  me.  Better  drive  out 
home  with  me  an'  break  it  to  Amanda,"  he  cried. 

I  smiled  as  I  sat  beside  him,  noting  that  his  en- 
thusiasm was  very  like  relief.  For  if  any  one  was 
present,  he  well  knew  that  his  masterful  Amanda 
would  say  nothing  of  his  tardiness.  And  so  it  was, 
for  as  we  entered  the  kitchen  she  entirely  overlooked 
her  husband  in  her  amazement  at  seeing  me. 

"Forevermore  !"  that  great  Amanda  said,  turning 
from  her  stove  of  savoury  skillets;  "ain't  you  the 
stranger  ?  Timothy  says  only  to-day,  speakin'  o' 
you,  'She  ain't  ben  here  for  a  week/  s'e.  'Week!' 
s'l;  'it's  goin'  on  two.9  I'm  a  great  hand  to  keep 
track.  Throw  off  your  things." 

At  that  I  began  to  feel  her  influence.  Mis*  Top- 
lady  is  so  huge  and  capable  that  her  mere  presence 
will  modify  my  judgments;  and  instantly  I  fell  won- 
dering if  I  was  not,  after  all,  come  on  a  fool's  errand. 
She  is  like  Athena.  For  I  can  think  about  Athena 
well  enough,  but  if  I  were  really  to  stand  before  her, 
I  am  certain  that  the  project  in  which  I  implored  her 
help  would  be  sunk  in  my  sudden  sense  of  Olympus. 

Not  the  less,  I  made  my  somewhat  remarkable  pro- 
posal with  some  show  of  assurance.,  and  I  should 


70  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

have  counted  on  Mis'  Toplady's  sympathy,  which 
ripens  at  less  than  a  sigh.  In  Friendship  you  but 
mention  a  possible  charity,  visit,  or  new  church  car- 
pet, and  the  enthusiasm  will  react  on  the  possibility, 
and  the  thing  be  done.  It  is  the  spirit  of  the  West, 
the  pioneer  blood  in  the  veins  of  her  children,  express- 
ing itself  (since  there  are  of  late  no  forests  to  con- 
quer) in  terms  of  love  of  any  initiative.  We  love  a 
project  as  an  older  world  would  approve  the  civilizing 
reasons  for  that  project.  Mis'  Amanda  plunged  into 
the  processes  of  the  party  much  as  she  would  have 
felled  a  tree.  It  warmed  my  heart  to  hear  her. 

"  We'd  ought  to  hev  a  hot  supper  —  what  victuals'll 
we  take  ?"  she  said.  "Land,  yes,  oysters,  o'  course, 
an'  we'll  all  chip  in  an'  take  plenty-enough  crackers. 
We  might  as  well  carry  dishes  from  here,  so's  to  be 
sure  an'  hev  what  we  want  to  use.  At  Mis'  Doctor 
Helman's  su'prise  we  run  'way  short  o'  spoons,  an' 
Elder  Woodruff  finally  went  out  in  the  hall  an'  drank 
his  broth,  an'  hid  his  bowl  in  the  entry.  Mis'  Hel- 
man  found  it,  an'  knew  it  by  the  nick.  That  reminds 
me  —  who'll  we  ask  ?" 

"Mrs.  Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss,"  said  I, 
promptly,  "and  Abigail  Arnold,  and  Doctor  June, 
and  Abel  Halsey." 

"An'  the  Proudfits,"  Mis'  Amanda  went  on. 

"Suppose,"  said  I,  with  high  courage,  "that  we 
do  not  ask  the  Proudfits  at  all  ?" 


STOCK  71 

Mis'  Amanda  threw  up  her  giant  hands. 

"Not  ask  the  Proudfits?"  she  said.  "Why,  my 
land  a'  livin',  the  minister  hardly  has  church  in  the 
church  without  the  Proudfits  get  an  invite." 

"Calliope  mends  their  fine  lace  for  them,"  I  re- 
minded her,  feeling  guilty.  "They  wouldn't  care  to 
come,  Mrs.  Amanda,  would  they?" 

But  of  course  I  was  remembering  Delia  More's 
"  But  now  —  I  know  'em.  They  worship  goodness 
like  a  little  god."  And  that  night  I  was  not  minded 
to  have  them  about,  for  it  might  befall  that  it  would  be 
necessary  to  understand  other  things  as  well. 

"Miss  Linda  would  'a'  cared  to,"  said  Mis' 
Amanda,  thoughtfully,  "but  I  donno,  myself,  about 
Mis'  Proudfit  an'  Miss  Clementina  —  for  sure." 

So  bold  an  innovation  as  the  Proudfits'  omission, 
however,  moved  Timothy  Toplady  to  doubt. 

"They  might  not  come,"  he  said,  frowning  and 
looking  sidewise,  "but-what  I  think  is  this,  will  they 
like  bein' left  out?" 

His  masterful  Amanda  instantly  took  the  other 
side. 

"Land,  Timothy!"   she  said,  "you  be  one!" 

I  have  heard  her  say  that  to  him  again  and  again, 
and  always  in  a  tone  so  skilfully  admiring  that  he 
looked  almost  gratified.  And  we  mentioned  the 
Proudfits  no  more. 

So  Calliope  Marsh's  surprise  party  came  about. 


72  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

When  supper  was  over,  the  table  was  "left  setting," 
while  pickles  and  cookies  and  "conserve"  were 
packed  in  baskets;  and  presently  the  Topladys  and 
I  were  stealing  about  the  village  inviting  to  festivity. 
I  love  to  remember  how  swiftly  Daphne  Street  took 
on  an  air  of  the  untoward.  Kitchens  were  left  dark, 
unaccustomed  lights  flashed  in  upper  chambers, 
some  went  scurrying  for  oysters  before  the  post-office 
store  should  be  closed,  and  some  spread  the  news, 
eager  to  share  in  the  holiday  importance.  I  love  to 
remember  our  certainty,  so  reasonably  established, 
that  they  would  all  join  us  as  infallibly  as  children 
will  join  in  jollity.  No  one  refused,  no  one  hesitated ; 
and  when,  at  eight  o'clock,  the  Topladys  and  I 
reached  the  rendezvous  in  the  Engine-House  entry, 
every  one  was  there  before  us  —  save  only,  of  course, 
the  Proudfits. 

"Where's  the  Proudfits?  Ain't  we  goin'  to  wait 
for  the  Proudfits  ?"  asked  more  than  one;  and  some 
one  had  seen  the  Proudfit  motor  come  flashing  through 
the  town  from  the  Plank  Road,  empty.  At  all  of 
which  I  kept  a  guilty  silence;  and  I  had  by  then  not 
a  little  guilt  to  bear,  since  I  was  becoming  every 
moment  more  doubtful  of  my  undertaking.  For  at 
heart  these  people  are  the  kindly  of  earth,  and  yet 
they  are  prone,  as  Delia  More  had  said  of  the  Pioud- 
fits,  "to  worship  goodness  like  a  little  god,"  nor  do 
they  commonly  broaden  their  allegiance  without  dis- 


STOCK 


73 


languished  precedent.  And  how  were  we  to  secure 
this  ? 

Every  one  was  there  —  the  little  gray  Doctor  June, 
flitting  about  as  quietly  as  a  moth,  and  all  those  of 
whom  Delia  More  had  asked  me:  Mis'  Holcomb- 
that-was-Mame-Bliss,  wearing  her  cloak  wine  broad- 
cloth side  out  to  honour  the  occasion;  Abigail 
Arnold,  with  a  huge  basket  of  gingerbread  and  jum- 
bles from  her  home  bakery;  Photographer  Jimmy 
Sturgis,  and  even  Mis'  Sturgis,  in  a  faint  aroma  of 
caraway  which  she  nibbled  incessantly;  Liddy 
Ember,  and  poor  Ellen,  wearing  her  magnificent  hair 
like  a  coronet,  and  standing  wistfully  about,  with 
her  hand,  palm  outward,  persistently  covering  her 
mouth;  and  Abel  Halsey,  who  was  to  leave  at  mid- 
night for  a  lonely  cross-country  ride  into  the  hills. 
And  as  they  stood,  gossiping  and  eager,  the  women 
bird-observant  of  one  another's  toilettes,  I  own  my- 
self to  have  felt  like  an  alien  among  them,  remember- 
ing how  I  alone  knew  that  Calliope  Marsh  was  not 
even  in  the  village. 

Very  softly  we  lifted  the  latch  of  Calliope's  gate 
and  trooped  in  her  little  dark  yard. 

"Blisterin'  Benson!"  Timothy  Toplady  whis- 
pered, "ef  the  house  hain't  pocket-dark,  front  and 
back.  What  ef  she's  went  in  the  country  ?" 

"Sh — h!"  whispered  his  great  Amanda,  master- 
fully. "It's  the  shades  down,  I'm  nervous  as  a 


74  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

witch.  My  land !  if  the  front  door  ain't  open 
a  foot!" 

Though  there  are  no  locked  doors  in  Friendship,  I 
had  feared  that  Calliope's  cottage  door  would  now 
be  barred,  and  that  Delia  More  would  answer  no 
formal  summons.  At  sight  of  the  unguarded  en- 
trance I  had  a  sick  fear  that  she  had  in  some  way 
heard  of  our  coming  and  fled  away,  leaving  the 
door  ajar  in  her  haste.  But  when  we  had  footed 
softly  across  the  porch  and  peered  in  the  dark  pas- 
sage, we  saw  at  its  farther  end  a  crack  of  light. 

"  Might  as  well  step  ri'  down  to  the  dinin'  room  — 
that's  where  she  sets,"  Mis'  Amanda  said  in  her 
whisper,  which  is  gigantic  too. 

The  passage  smelled  of  the  oilcloth  on  the  floor 
and  of  a  rubber  waterproof  which  I  brushed.  And  I 
shrank  back  beside  the  waterproof  and  let  the  others 
go  on.  For,  after  all,  to  that  woman  within  I  was  a 
stranger,  and  these  were  her  friends  of  old  time.  So 
it  was  Mis'  Amanda  who  opened  the  dining-room 
door. 

I  could  see  that  the  room  was  cheery  with  a  red- 
shaded  hanging-lamp,  and  shelves  of  plants,  and  a 
glowing  fire  in  the  great  range.  A  table  was  covered 
with  red  cotton  and  laid  with  dishes.  Also,  there 
was  the  fragrance  of  toast,  so  that  one  wished  to 
enter.  And  in  a  rocking-chair  sat  Delia  More.  She 
stared  up  in  a  kind  of  terror  at  the  open  door,  and 


STOCK  75 

then  turned  shrinkingly  to  some  one  who  sat  beside 
her.  But  at  that  one  beside  her  I  looked  and  looked 
again,  for  her  rich  fur  cloak  had  fallen  where  she 
had  let  it  fall;  and  there,  sitting  with  Delia  More's 
hand  in  hers,  was  that  great  Madame  Proudfit  of  the 
Proudfit  estate. 

"For  the  land!"  Mis'  Amanda  said.  "For  the 
land  .  .  ." 

But  she  was  not  looking  at  Madame  Proudfit. 
And  hardly  seeing  her,  as  I  could  guess,  that  great 
Mis'  Amanda  went  forward,  holding  out  her  arms. 

"Delia  More!"   she  cried,  "Delia  More!" 

I  saw  Abel  Halsey's  pale,  luminous  face  as  he 
pushed  past  Timothy  and  strode  within  and  crossed 
to  her;  and  I  remember  Abigail  Arnold  and  Mis' 
Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss,  and  how  they  fol- 
lowed Abel  with  little  sharp  cries  which  must  have 
been  a  kind  of  music.  And  with  them  went  Ellen 
Ember,  as  if,  secretly,  she  were  wiser  than  we  knew. 
And  while  the  others  blocked  the  passage  or  crowded 
into  the  room,  according  to  the  nature  which  was 
theirs,  some  one  came  from  the  cellarway  and 
paused,  smiling,  on  the  threshold.  And  it  was, 
Miss  Clementina  Proudfit,  with  eggs  in  her  hands. 

"Wait !"  I  heard  Delia's  sharp,  piping  voice  then; 
"  wait ! " 

She  rose,  one  thin  little  hand  pressed  tensely  along 
her  cheek.  But  the  other  hand  Madame  Proudfit 


76  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

held  in  both  her  own  as  she,  too,  rose  beside  her. 
And  with  them  Abel  stood,  facing  the  rest. 

"O,  Abel  Halsey  — Abel  Halsey  .  .  ."  Delia 
said,  "  an'  Mame  Bliss  —  nor  you,  Abigail,  'don't  you, 
any  of  you,  come  in  yet.  I  got  somethin'  to  tell  you." 

"  But  shake  hands  first,  Delia,"  cried  Abel  Halsey, 
and  Delia  looked  up  at  him,  in  her  face  a  sudden, 
incredulous  thankfulness  which  flushed  it,  brow  and 
cheek,  and  won  it  to  a  way  of  beauty.  But  she  did 
not  give  him  her  hand.  And  before  she  could  speak 
again  Miss  Clementina  put  down  the  eggs,  and,  with 
some  little  stir  of  silk,  she  took  a  step  or  two  steps 
toward  us. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "let  us  not  wait  for  anything  — 
it  has  been  so  long  since  we  have  met !  Delia 
has  just  told  mother  and  me  all  about  these  years 
—  and  you  don't  know  how  splendid  we  think 
she  has  been  and  how  brave  in  great  trouble.  Come 
in,  everybody,  and  let's  make  her  welcome  home!" 

Madame  Proudfit  said  nothing,  but  she  nodded 
and  smiled  at  Delia  More,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that 
in  the  Proudfits'  way  with  Delia,  their  beautiful  Linda 
had  won  a  kind  of  presence  with  them  after  all.  And 
*  in  the  moment's  hush  the  toast,  propped  on  a  fork 
before  the  coals  in  the  range,  suddenly  blazed  up  in 
blue  flame  at  the  crust. 

"Somebody  save  the  toast!"  cried  Clementina 
and  smiled  very  brightly. 


STOCK  77 

They  needed  no  more.  Timothy  Toplady  sprang 
at  the  toast,  and  already  Abel  Halsey  and  Doctor 
June  were  shaking  Delia's  hand;  and  Mis'  Amanda, 
throwing  her  shawl  back  over  her  shoulders  from  its 
pin  at  her  throat,  enveloped  Delia  in  her  giant  arms. 
And  the  others  came  pushing  forward,  on  their  faces 
the  smiles  which,  however  they  had  faltered  in  the 
passage  seeking  a  precedent,  I  make  bold  to  guess 
bodied  forth  the  gentle,  hesitant  spirit  which  informed 
them. 

As  for  me,  I  waited  without,  even  after  the  others 
had  entered.  And  as  I  lingered,  the  outer  door  was 
pushed  open  to  admit  some  late  comer  who  whisked 
down  the  passage  and  stood  in  the  dining-room  door- 
way. It  was  Calliope. 

"Delia  More !"  she  cried;  "didn't  I  tell  you  how 
it'd  be  if  you'd  only  let  'em  know  ?  An'  Mis'  Proud- 
fit,  you  here  ?  I  been  worried  to  death  on  account  o' 
forgettin'  to  take  home  your  cream  lace  waist  I 
mended." 

Madame  Proudfit's  voice  lowered  the  high  key  of 
the  others  talking  in  chorus. 

"We  drove  over  to  get  it,  Calliope,"  she  said. 
"And  here  we  found  our  Delia  More." 

At  eleven  o'clock  that  night,  as  I  sat  writing  a  let- 
ter in  which  the  spirit  of  what  had  come  to  pass 
must  have  breathed  —  as  a  spirit  will  breathe — - 


78  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

Calliope  Marsh  tapped  at  my  door;  and  she  had  a 
little  basket. 

"Here,"  she  said,  "I  brought  you  this.  It's  some 
o'  everything  we  hed.  An'  —  I'm  obliged  for  my 
s'prise,"  she  added,  squeezing  my  hand  in  the  dark- 
ness. "I  surmised  first  thing,  most,  when  Delia 
described  you.  No;  land,  no!  —  Delia  don't  sus- 
picion you  got  it  up.  She  don't  think  of  it  bein' 
anybody  but  just  God  —  an'  I  donno's  'twas.  An* 
that's  what  Abel  thinks  —  wa'n't  Abel  splendid  ? 
You  know  'bout  Abel  —  an'  Delia  ?  You  know  he 
use'  to  —  he  wanted  to — that  is,  he  was  in — oh,  well, 
no.  Of  course  you  wouldn't  know.  Well,  Delia 
don't  suspicion  you  —  but  she  said  I  should  tell  you 
something.  'You  tell  her,'  she  says  to  me,  'you  tell 
her  I  say  I  guess  I  take  stock  now,'  she  says;  'tell 
her  that:  I  guess  I  take  stock  now." 

At  this  my  heart  leaped  up  so  that  I  hardly  know 
what  I  said  in  answer. 

"Delia's  out  here  now,"  Calliope  called  from  the 
dark  steps.  "The  Proudfits  brought  us.  Delia's 
goin'  home  with  'em  —  to  stay." 

Thus  I  saw  the  eyes  of  the  Proudfits'  motor,  with 
the  threads  of  streaming  light,  about  to  go  skimming 
from  my  gate.  And  in  that  kindly  security  was 
Delia  More. 

"Calliope,"  I  cried  after  her  because  I  could  not 
help  it,  "tell  Delia  More  I  take  stock,  too !" 


VII 

THE    BIG  WIND 

OF  Abel  Halsey,  that  young  itinerant  preacher,  I 
learned  more  on  a  December  day  when  Autumn 
seemed  to  have  come  back  to  find  whether  she  had 
left  anything.  Calliope  and  I  were  resting  from  a 
racing  walk  up  the  hillside,  where  the  squat  brick 
Leading  Church  of  Friendship  overlooks  the  valley 
pastures  and  the  village.  Calliope  walks  like  a  girl, 
and  with  our  haste  and  the  keen  air,  her  wrinkled 
cheeks  were  as  rosy  as  youth. 

"  Don't  it  seem  like  some  days  don't  belong  to  any 
month,  but  just  whim  along,  doin'  as  they  please  ?" 
Calliope  said.  "Months  that  might  be  snowin'  an* 
blowin'  the  expression  off  our  face  hev  days  when 
they  sort  o'  show  summer  hid  inside,  secret  an'  holy. 
That's  the  way  with  lots  o'  things,  ain't  it  ?  That's 
the  way,"  she  added  thoughtfully,  "Abel  feels  about 
the  Lord,  I  guess.  Abel  Halsey,  —  you  know." 

They  had  told  me  how  Abel,  long  ordained  a  min- 
ister of  God,  had  steadfastly  refused  to  be  installed  a 

70 


8o  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

pastor  of  any  church.  He  was  a  devout  man,  but 
the  love  of  far  places  was  upon  him,  and  he  lived 
what  Friendship  called  "a-gypsyin'"  off  in  the  hills, 
now  to  visit  a  sick  man,  now  to  preach  in  a  country 
schoolhouse,  now  to  marry,  or  bury,  or  help  with  the 
threshing.  These  lonely  rides  among  the  hills  and 
his  custom  of  watching  a  train  come  in  or  rush  by  out 
of  the  distance  were  his  ways  of  voyaging.  Per- 
haps, too,  his  little  skill  at  the  organ  gave  him,  now 
and  then,  an  hour  resembling  a  journey.  But  in  his 
first  youth  he  had  meant  to  go  away  in  earnest  — 
far  away,  to  the  City  or  some  other  city.  Also, 
though  Calliope  did  not  speak  of  it  again,  and  I 
think  that  the  others  kept  a  loyal  silence  because  of 
my  strangerhood,  I  had  known,  since  the  home  com- 
ing of  Delia  More,  that  Abel  Halsey  had  once  had 
another  dream. 

"You  wasn't  here  when  the  new  church  was  built," 
Calliope  said,  looking  up  at  the  building  proudly. 
"That  was  the  time  I  mean  about  Abel.  You  know, 
before  it  was  built  we'd  hed  church  in  the  hall  over 
the  Gekerjeck's  drug  store;  an'  because  it  was  his 
hall,  Hiram  Gekerjeck,  he  just  about  run  the  church, 
—  picked  out  the  wall  paper,  left  the  stair  door  open 
Sundays  so's  he  could  get  the  church  heat,  till  the 
whole  service  smelt  o'  ether,  an*  finally  hed  church 
announcements  printed  as  a  gift,  to  with  a  line  about 
a  patent  medicine  o'  his  set  fine  along  at  the  bottom. 


THE  BIG  WIND  81 

He  said  that  was  no  different  than  advertisin'  the 
printin'-offices  that  way,  like  they  do.  But  it  was 
that  move  made  Abel  Halsey  —  him  an'  Timothy 
Toplady  and  Eppleby  Holcomb  an'  Postmaster 
Sykes,  the  three  elders,  set  to  to  build  a  church.  An' 
they  done  it  too.  An'  to  them  four  I  declare  it 
seemed  like  the  buildin'  was  a  body  waitin'  for  its 
soul  to  be  born.  From  the  minute  the  sod  was 
scraped  off  they  watched  every  stick  that  went  into 
it.  An'  by  November  it  was  all  done  an'  plastered 
an'  waitin'  its  pews  —  an'  it  was  a-goin'  to  be  dedi- 
cated with  special  doin's  —  music  from  off,  an' 
strange  ministers,  an'  Reverend  Arthur  Bliss  from 
the  City.  I  guess  Abel  an'  the  elders  hed  tacked 
printed  invites  to  half  the  barns  in  the  county. 

"I  rec'lect  it  was  o'  Wednesday, the  one  next  before 
the  dedication,  an'  windy-cold  an'  wintry.  I'd  been 
havin'  a  walk  that  day,  an'  'long  about  five  o'clock, 
right  about  where  we  are,  I'd  stood  watchin'  the  sun- 
set over  the  Pump  pasture  there,  till  I  was  chilled 
through.  The  smoke  was  rollin'  out  o'  the  church 
chimney  because  they  was  dryin'  the  plaster,  an'  I 
run  in  there  to  get  my  hands  warm  an'  see  how  the 
plaster  was  doin'.  An'  inside  was  the  three  elders, 
walkin'  'round,  layin'  a  finger  on  a  sash  or  a  post  — 
the  kind  o'  odd,  knowledgeable  way  men  has  with 
new  buildin's.  The  Ladies'  Aid  had  got  the  floor 
broom-clean,  an'  the  lamp-chandelier  filled  an* 


82  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

ready;  an*  the  foreign  pipe-organ  that  the  Proudfits 
had  sent  from  Europe  was  in  an'  in  workin'  order, 
little  lookin'-glass  over  the  keyboard  an'  all.  It 
seemed  rill  home-like,  with  the  two  big  stoves  a-goin', 
an'  the  floor  back  of  'em  piled  up  with  the  chunks 
Peleg  Bemus  had  sawed  for  nothin'.  Everything 
was  all  redded  up,  waitin'  for  the  pews. 

"Timothy  Toplady  was  puttin'  out  his  middle 
finger  stiff  here  an'  there  on  the  plaster. 

"It's  dry  as  a  bone,'  he  says,  'but  what  I  say  is 
this,  le's  us  leave  a  fire  burn  here  all  night,  so's  to 
be  sure.  I'd  hate  like  death  to  hev  the  whole  con- 
gregation catchin'  cold  an'  takin'  Hiram  Geker- 
jeck's  medicine.' 

"I  rec'lect  Eppleby  Holcomb  looked  up  sort  o' 
dreamy  —  Eppleby  always  goes  round  like  he'd 
swallowed  his  last  night's  sleep. 

"'The  house  o'  God,'  he  says  over;  'ain't  that 
curious?  Nothin' about  it  to  indicate  it's  the  house 
o'  God  but  the  shape  —  no  more'n's  if  'twas  a  buildin' 
where  the  Holy  Spirit  never  come  near.  An'  yet 
right  here  in  this  place  we'll  mebbe  feel  the  big  wind 
an'  speak  with  Pentecostal  tongues.' 

""T  seems  like,'  says  Postmaster  Sykes,  thought- 
ful, "t  seems  like  we'd  ought  to  hev  a  little  meetin* 
o'  thanks  here  o'  Sat'day  night  —  little  informal 
praise  meetin'  or  somethin.' 

"Timothy  shakes  his  head  decided. 


THE  BIG  WIND  83 

" '  Silas  Sy kes,  what  you  talkin'  ? '  he  says.  '  Why, 
the  church  ain't  dedicated  yet.  A  house  o'  God,' 
s'e,  'can't  be  used  for  no  purpose  whatso*?wr  without 
it's  been  dedicated.' 

"'So  it  can't  —  so  it  can't,'  says  the  postmaster, 
apologetic,  knowin'  he  was  in  politics  an'  that  the 
brethren  was  watchin'  him,  cat  to  mouse,  for 
slips. 

" '  I  s'pose  that's  so,'  says  Eppleby,  doubtful.  But 
he's  one  o'  them  that  sort  o'  ducks  under  situations 
to  see  if  they're  alike  on  both  sides,  an'  if  they  ain't, 
he  up  an'  questions  'em.  Timothy,  though,  he  was 
differ'nt.  Timothy  was  always  goin'  on  about 
constituted  authority,  an'  to  him  the  thing  was  the 
thing,  even  if  it  was  another  thing. 

'That's  right,'  he  insists, his  lips  disappearin'  with 
certainty.  '  I  s'pose  we  hadn't  reely  ought  even  to 
come  in  here  an'  stan'  'round,  like  we  are.' 

"He  looks  sidlin'  over  towards  me,  warmin'  my 
hands  rill  secular  by  the  church  stove.  An'  I  felt 
like  I'd  been  spoke  up  for  when  somebody  says  from 
the  door:  — 

'You  better  just  bar  out  the  carpenters  o'  this 
world,  friends,  an'  done  with  it!' 

"  It  was  Abel  Halsey,  standin'  in  the  entry,  lookin' 
as  handsome  as  the  law  allows.  An'  I  see  he  hap- 
pened to  be  there  because  the  Through  was  about 
due,  —  that's  the  one  that  don't  stop  here,  —  an'  you 


84  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

can  always  get  a  good  view  of  it  from  this  slope.  You 
know  Abel  never  misses  watchin'  a  fast  train  go  'long, 
if  he  can  help  himself. 

"'What's  the  i-dea?'  Abel  says.    'How  can  you 
pray  at  all  in  closets  an*  places  that  ain't  been  dedi- 
cated ?     I  shouldn't  think  they'd  be  holy  enough,'  s'e. 
'That/   says   the   postmaster,   sure   o'   support, 
'ain't  the  question.' 

"'I  thought  it  couldn't  be,'  says  Abel,  amiable. 
'Well,  what  is  the  question?  Whether  prayer  is 
prayer,  no  matter  where  you're  prayin'  ?' 

'"Oh,  no,'  says  Eppleby  Holcomb,  soothin',  "it 
ain't  that.' 

"'I  thought  it  couldn't  be  that,'  says  Abel.  'Is  it 
whether  the  Lord  is  in  dedicated  spots  an*  nowheres 
else?' 

'"Abel  Halsey,'  Timothy  tarts  up,  'you  needn't 
to  be  sacrilegious.' 

"But,'  says  Abel, 'the  question  is,  whether  you're 
sacrilegious  to  deny  a  prayer-meetin'  or  any  other 
good  use  to  the  church  or  to  any  other  place,  dedi- 
cated or  not.  Well,  Timothy,  I  think  you  are.' 

"Timothy  clears  his  throat  an'  dabs  at  the  palm 
of  his  hand  with  his  other  front  finger.  But  before 
he  could  lay  down  eternal  law,  we  sort  o'  heard, 
almost  before  we  knew  we  heard,  folks  hurryin'  past 
out  here  on  the  frozen  ground.  An'  they  was  shout- 
in',  like  questions,  an'  a-shoutin'  further  off.  We 


THE  BIG  WIND  85 

looked  out,  an'  I  can  remember  how  the  whole  slope 
up  from  the  village  there  was  black  with  folks. 

"We  run  outside,  an'  I  know  I  kep'  close  by  Abel 
Halsey.  An'  I  got  hold  o'  what  had  happened  when 
somebody  yelled  an  answer  to  his  askin'.  You 
probably  heard  all  about  that  part.  It  was  the  day 
the  Through  Express  went  off  the  track  down  there 
in  the  cut  beyond  the  Pump  pasture. 

"We  run  with  the  rest  of  'em,  me  keepin'  close  to 
Abel,  I  guess  because  he's  got  a  way  with  him  that 
makes  you  think  he'd  know  what  to  do  no  matter 
what.  But  when  he  was  two-thirds  o'  the  way  acrost 
the  pasture,  he  stops  short  an'  grabs  at  my  sleeve. 

"'Look  here,'  he  says,  '-you  can't  go  down  there. 
You  mustn't  do  it.  We  donno  what'll  be.  You  stay 
here,'  he  says;  'you  set  there  under  the  cottonwood.' 

"You  kind  o'  haf  to  mind  Abel.  It's  sort  o' 
grained  in  that  man  to  hev  folks  disciple  after  him. 
I  made  him  promise  he'd  motion  from  the  fence  if  he 
see  I  could  help  any,  an'  then  I  se'  down  under  that 
big  tree  down  there.  I  was  tremblin'  some,  I  know. 
It  always  seems  like  wrecks  are  somethin'  that 
happen  in  other  states  an'  in  the  dark.  But  when 
one's  on  ground  that  you  know  like  a  book  an'  was 
brought  up  on,  — when  it's  in  the  daylight,  right  by  a 
pasture  you've  been  acrost  always  an'  where  you've 
walked  the  ties,  —  well,  I  s'pose  it's  the  same  feelin' 
as  when  a  man  you  know  cuts  up  a  state's  prison 


86  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

caper;  seem's  like  he  cant  of,  because  you   knew 
him. 

"Half  the  men  o'  Friendship  run  by  me,  seems 
though.  The  whole  town'd  been  rousted  up  while 
we  was  in  the  church  talkin'  heresy.  An'  up  on  the 
high  place  on  the  road  there  I  see  ZittelhoPs  under- 
taking wagon,  with  the  sunset  showin'  on  its  nickel 
rails.  But  not  a  woman  run  past  me.  Ain't  it  funny 
how  it's  men  that  go  to  danger  of  rail  an'  fire  an* 
water  —  but  when  it's  nothin'  but  birth  an'  dyin* 
natural,  then  it's  for  women  to  be  there. 

"When  I'd  got  about  ready  to  fly  away,  waitin'  so, 
I  see  Abel  at  the  fence.  An'  he  didn't  motion  to  me, 
but  he  swung  over  the  top  an'  come  acrost  the  stubble, 
an'  I  see  he  hed  somethin'  in  his  arms.  I  run  to  meet 
him,  an'  he  run  too,  crooked,  his  feet  turnin'  over 
with  him  some  in  the  hard  ground.  The  sky  made 
his  face  sort  o'  bright;  an'  I  see  he'd  got  a  child  in 
his  arms. 

"He  didn't  give  her  to  me.  He  stood  her  down 
side  o*  me  —  a  little  thing  of  five  years  old,  or  six, 
with  thick,  straight  hair  an'  big  scairt  eyes. 

"'Is  she  hurt,  Abel?'  I  says. 
"No,  she  ain't  hurt  none,'  he  answers  me,  'an* 
they's  about  seventeen  more  of  'em,  her  age,  an'  they 
ain't  hurt,  either.  Their  coach  was  standin'  up  on 
its  legs  all  right.  But  the  man  they  was  with,  he's 
stone  dead.  Hit  on  the  head,  somehow.  An'/ 


THE  BIG  WIND  S; 

Abel  says,  'I'm  goin'  to  throw  'em  all  over  the  fence 
to  you.' 

"The  little  girl  jus'  kep'  still.  An'  when  we  took 
her  by  each  hand,  an'  run  back  toward  the  fence  with 
her,  her  feet  hardly  touchin'  the  ground,  she  kep'  up 
without  a  word,  like  all  to  once  she'd  found  out  this 
is  a  world  where  the  upside-down  is  consider'ble  in 
use.  An'  I  waited  with  her,  over  there  this  side  the 
cut,  hearin'  'em  farther  down  rippin'  off  fence  rails 
so's  to  let  through  what  they  hed  to  carry. 

"Time  after  time  Abel  come  scramblm'  up  the 
sand-bank,  bringin'  'em  two 't  once  —  little  girls  they 
was,  all  about  the  age  o'  the  first  one,  none  of  'em 
with  hats  or  cloaks  on;  an'  I  took  'em  in  my  arms 
an'  set  'em  down,  an'  took  'em  in  my  arms  an'  set  'em 
down,  till  I  was  fair  movin'  in  a  dream.  They  be- 
longed, I  see  by  their  dress,  to  some  kind  of  a  home 
for  the  homeless,  an'  I  judged  the  man  was  takin'  'em 
son  Adheres,  him  that  Abel  said'd  been  killed. 
Some'd  reach  out  their  arms  to  me  over  the  fence  — 
an'  some  was  afraid  an'  hung  back,  but  some'd  just 
cling  to  me  an'  not  want  to  be  set  down.  I  can  re- 
member them  the  best. 

"Abel,  when  he  come  with  the  last  ones,  he  off 
with  his  coat  like  I  with  my  ulster,  an'  as  well  as  we 
could  we  wrapped  four  or  five  of  'em  up  —  one  that 
was  sickly,  an'  one  little  delicate  blonde,  an'  a  little 
lame  girl,  an'  the  one  —  the  others  called  her  Mitsy 


88  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

—  that'd  come  over  the  fence  first.  An'  by  then  half 
of 'em  was  beginnin'  to  cry  some.  An'  the  wind  was 
like  so  many  knives. 

"'Where  shall  we  take  'em  to,  Abel?'  I  says, 
beside  myself. 

'Take 'em?'  he  says.  'Take 'em  into  the  church  ! 
Quick  as  you  can.  This  wind  is  like  death.  Stay 
with  'em  till  I  come.' 

"Somehow  or  other  I  got  'em  acrost  that  pasture. 
When  I  look  at  the  Pump  pasture  now,  in  afternoon 
like  this,  or  in  Spring  with  vi'lets,  or  when  a  circus 
show's  there,  it  don't  seem  to  me  it  could  'a'  been  the 
same  place.  I  kep'  'em  together  the  best  I  could  — 
some  of 'em  beggin'  for  'Mr.  Middie  —  Mr.  Middie,' 
the  man,  I  judged,  that  was  dead.  An'  finally  we 
got  up  here  in  the  road,  an'  it  was  like  the  end  o'  pain 
to  be  able  to  fling  open  the  church  door  an'  marshal 
'em  through  the  entry  into  that  great,  big,  warm  room, 
with  the  two  fires  roarin'. 

"I  got  'em  'round  the  nearest  stove  an'  rubbed 
their  little  hands  an'  tried  not  to  scare  'em  to  death 
with  wantin'  to  love  'em;  an'  all  the  while,  bad  as  I 
felt  for  'em,  I  was  glad  an'  glad  that  it  was  me  that 
could  be  there  with  'em.  They  was  twenty,  —  when 
I  come  to  count  'em  so's  to  keep  track,  —  twenty 
little  girls  with  short,  thick  hair,  or  soft,  short  curls, 
an'  every  one  with  something  baby-like  left  to  'em. 
An'  when  we  set  on  the  floor  round  the  stove,  the 


THE  BIG  WIND  89 

coals  shone  through  the  big  open  draft  into  their 
faces,  an'  they  looked  over  their  shoulders  to  the  dark 
creepin'  up  the  room,  an*  they  come  closer  'round  me 
—  an'  the  closest-up  ones  snuggled. 

"Well,  o'  course  that  was  at  first,  when  they  was 
some  dazed.  But  as  fast  as  their  blue  little  hands 
was  warm  an'  pink  again,  one  or  two  of  'em  begun 
to  whimper,  natural  an'  human,  an'  up  with  their 
arm  to  their  face,  an'  then  begun  to  cry  right  out,  an' 
some  more  joined  in,  an'  the  rest  pipes  up,  askin'  for 
Mr.  Middie.  An'  I  thought,  '  Sp'osin'  they  all  cried 
an'  what  if  Abel  Halsey  stayed  away  hours.'  I  donno. 
I  done  my  best  too.  Mebbe  it's  because  I'm  use'  to 
children  with  my  heart  an'  not  with  my  ways.  Any- 
how, most  of  'em  was  cryin'  prime  when  Abel  finally 
got  there. 

"When  he  come  in,  I  see  Abel's  face  was  white  an' 
dusty,  an'  he  had  his  other  coat  off  an'  gone  too,  an' 
his  shirt-sleeves  was  some  tore.  But  he  comes 
runnin'  up  to  them  cryin'  children  an'  I  wish't  you 
could  'a'  seen  his  smile  —  Abel's  smile  was  always 
kind  o'  like  his  soul  growin'  out  of  his  face,  rill 
thrifty. 

" '  Why,  you  little  kiddies  ! '  s'e, '  cryin'  when  you're 
all  nice  an'  warm !  Le's  see  now,'  he  says  grave. 
'Anybody  here  know  how  to  play  Drop-the-hand- 
kerchief  ?  If  you  do,'  he  tells  'em,  'stand  up  quick!9 

"They  scrambled  'round  like  they  was  beetles  an* 


90  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

you'd  took  up  the  stone.  They  was  all  up  in  a 
minute,  an*  stopped  cryin',  too.  With  that  he 
catches  my  handkerchief  out  o'  my  hand  an'  flutters 
it  over  his  head  an'  runs  to  the  middle  o'  the  room. 

"Come  on!'  he  says.  'Hold  o'  hands  —  every 
one  o'  you  hold  o'  hands.  I'm  goin'  to  drop  the 
handkerchief,  an'  you'd  better  hurry  up.' 

"That  was  talk  they  knew.  They  was  after  him 
in  a  secunt  an'  tears  forgot,  —  them  poor  little  things, 
—  laughin'  an'  hold  o'  hands,  an'  dancin'  in  a  chain, 
an'  standin'  in  a  ring.  An'  when  he  hed  'em  like 
that,  an'  still,  Abel  begun  runnin'  'round  to  drop  the 
handkerchief;  an'  then  he  turns  to  me. 

"Only  two  killed,  thank  God,'  he  says  as  he  run; 
'the  conductor  an'  M-i-d-d-1-e-t-o-n,'  he  spells  it, 
an'  motions  to  the  children  with  the  handkerchief  so's 
I'd  know  who  Middleton  was.  'An'  not  a  scrap  o' 
paper  on  him,'  he  goes  on,  'to  tell  what  home  he 
brought  the  children  from  or  where  he's  goin'  with 
'em.  Their  mileage  was  punched  to  the  City  — 
but  we  don't  know  where  they  belong  there,  an'  the 
conductor  bein'  gone  too.  The  poor  fellow  that 
had  'em  in  charge  never  knew  what  hurt  him.  Hit 
from  overhead,  he  was,  an'  his  skull  crushed  .  .  / 

"It  was  so  dark  in  the  church  by  then  we  could 
hardly  see,  but  the  children  could  keep  track  o'  the 
white  handkerchief.  He  let  it  fall  behind  the  little 
girl  he'd  brought  me  first,  —  Mitsy,  —  an'  she  catches 


THE  BIG  WIND  91 

it  up  an'  sort  o'  squeaks  with  the  fun  an'  runs  after 
him.     An'  while  he  doubles  an'  turns,  — 

'They've  telegraphed  ahead,'  he  says,  'to  two  or 
three  places  in  the  City.  But  even  if  we  hear  right 
off,  we  can't  get  'em  out  o'  Friendship  to-night. 
They'll  hev  to  stay  here.  The  Commercial  Trav- 
ellers' Hotel  an'  the  Depot  House  has  both  got  all 
they  can  do  for  —  some  of  'em  hurt  pretty  bad. 
They  couldn't  either  hotel  take  'em  in  .  .  .' 

"Then  he  lets  Mitsy  catch  him  an'  he  ups  with  her 
on  his  shoulder  an'  run  with  her  on  his  back,  his 
face  lookin'  out  o'  her  blue,  striped  skirts. 

"  We'll  hev  to  house  'em  right  here  in  the  church,' 
he  says. 

"'Here  ?'    says  I;  'here  in  the  church  ?' 

'You  know  Friendship,'  he  says,  hoppin'  along. 
'Not  half  a  dozen  houses  could  take  in  more'n  two 
extry,  even  if  we  hed  the  time  to  canvass.  An'  we 
ain't  the  time.  They  want  .heir  s-u-p-p-e-r  right 
now,'  he  spells  it  out,  an'  lit  out  nimble  when  Mitsy 
dropped  the  handkerchief  back  o'  the  little  blond 
girl.  Then  he  let  the  little  blond  girl  catch  them, 
and  he  took  her  on  his  shoulders  too,  an'  they  was 
both  shoutin'  so  't  he  hed  to  make  little  circles  out 
to  get  where  I  could  hear  him. 

' '  I've  seen  Zittelhof,'  he  told  me.  '  He  was  down 
there  with  his  wagon.  He'll  bring  up  enough 
little  canvas  cots  from  the  store.  An'  I  thought 


92  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

mebbe  you'd  go  down  to  the  village  an'  pick  up  some 
stuff  they'll  need  —  bedding  an'  things.  An'  get  the 
women  here  with  some  supper.  Come  on  now,'  he 
calls  out  to  'em;  'everybody  in  a  procession  an'  sing!' 
"He  led  'em  off  with 

"  *  King  William  was  King  James's  son,' 
an'  he  sings  back  to  me,  for  the  secunt  line, 
" '  Go  now,  go  quick,  I  bet  they're  starved ! ' 

"So  I  got  into  my  coat,  tryin'  to  think  where  I 
should  go  to  be  sure  o'  not  wastin'  time  talkin'. 
Lots  o'  folks  in  this  world  is  willin',  but  mighty  few 
can  be  quick. 

"I  knew  right  off,  though,  where  I'd  find  some- 
body to  help.  The  Friendship  Married  Ladies' 
Cemetery  Improvement  Sodality  was  meetin'  that 
afternoon  with  Mis'  Toplady,  an'  I  could  cut  acrost 
their  pasture  — "  Calliope  nodded  toward  the  little 
Toplady  house  and  lv.e  big  Toplady  barn  —  "an' 
that's  what  I  done.  An'  when  I  got  near  enough 
to  the  house  to  tell,  I  see  by  the  light  in  the  parlour 
that  they  was  still  there.  An'  I  know  when  I  got 
into  the  room,  full  as  I  was  o'  news  o'  them  little 
children  an'  the  wreck  an'  the  two  killed  an'  all 
them  that  was  hurt  — there  was  the  Sodality  settlin' 
whether  the  lamb's  wool  comforter  for  the  bazaar 
should  be  tied  with  pink  for  daintiness  or  brown 
for  durability. 


THE  BIG  WIND  93 

"'Dainty!'  says  I,  when  I  got  my  breath.  'They's 
sides  to  life  makes  me  want  to  pinch  that  word  right 
out  o'  the  dictionary  same  as  I  would  a  bug/  I 
says. 

"That  was  funny,  too,"  —  Calliope  added  thought- 
fully, "  because  I  like  that  word,  speakin'  o'  food  an' 
ways  to  do  things.  But  some  folks  get  to  livin' 
the  word  same's  if  it  was  the  law. 

"I  guess  they  thought  I  was  crazy,"  she  went  on, 
"but  I  wasn't  long  makin'  'em  understand.  An' 
I  tell  you,  the  way  they  took  it  made  me  love  'em 
all.  If  you  want  to  love  folks,  just  you  get  in  some 
kind  o'  respectable  trouble  in  Friendship,  an'  you'll 
see  so  much  lovableness  that  the  trouble'll  kind  o' 
spindle  out  an'  leave  nothin'  but  the  love  doin' 
business.  My  land,  the  Sodality  went  at  the  situa- 
tion head  first,  like  it  was  somethin'  to  get  acrost 
before  dark.  An'  so  it  was. 

"  I  remember  Mis'  Photographer  Sturgis :  'There  ! ' 
she  says,  'most  cryin'.  '  If  ever  I  take  only  a  pint  o' 
milk,  I'm  sure  as  sure  to  want  more  before  the  day's 
out.  None  of  us  is  on  good  terms  with  each  other's 
milkman.  Where  we  goin'  to  get  the  milk,'  she 
says,  '  for  them  poor  little  things  ? ' 

"'Where?'  says  Mis'  Toplady  —  you  know  how 
big  an'  comfortable  an'  settled  she  is  — '  Where  ? 
Well,  you  needn't  to  think  o'  where.  I  expect 
the  Jersey  won't  be  milked  till  I  go  an'  milk  her,' 


94  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

she  says,  'but  she  gives  six  quarts,  nights,  right 
along  now,  an*  sometimes  seven.  Now  about  the 
bread/ 

"Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes  use'  to  set  sponge  twice 
a  week,  an'  she  offered  five  loaves  out  o'  her  six 
baked  that  day.  Mis'  Holcomb  had  two  loaves  o' 
brown  bread  an'  a  crock  o'  sour  cream  cookies. 
An'  Libbie  Liberty  bursts  out  that  they'd  got  up 
their  courage  an'  killed  an'  boiled  two  o'  their 
chickens  the  day  before  an'  none  o'  the  girls'd 
been  able  to  touch  a  mouthful,  bein'  they'd  raised 
the  hens  from  egg  to  axe.  Libbie  said  she'd  bring 
the  whole  kettle  along,  an'  it  could  be  het  on 
the  church  stove  an'  made  soup  of.  So  it  went  on, 
down  to  even  Liddy  Ember,  that  was  my  partner 
an'  silly  poor,  an'  in  about  four  minutes  everything 
was  provided  for,  beddin*  an'  all. 

"Mis'  Toplady  had  flew  upstairs,  gettin'  out  the 
linen,  an'  she  was  comin'  down  the  front  stairs 
with  her  arms  full  o'  sheets  an'  pillow  slips  when 
through  the  front  door  walks  Timothy  Toplady, 
come  in  all  excited  an'  lookin'  every  which  way. 
Seems  he'd  barked  his  elbow  in  the  rescue  work 
an'  laid  off  for  liniment. 

"'Oh,  Timothy,'  says  his  wife,  'them  poor  little 
children.  We've  been  plannin'  it  all  out.' 

''Who's  goin'  to  take  'em   in?'   says  Timothy, 
tryin'   to   roll   up   his  overcoat   sleeve   for   fear  the 


THE  BIG  WIND  95 

Sodality'd  be  put  to  the  blush  if  he  got  to  his  elbow 
any  other  way. 

"'They're  all  warm  in  the  church/  Mis'  Toplady 
says;  *  we're  goin'  to  leave  'em  there.  Zittelhof's 
goin'  to  take  up  canvas  cots.  We're  gettin'  the 
bedding  together,'  she  told  him. 

"Timothy  looked  up,  sort  o'  wild  an*  glazed. 

"'Canvas  cots,'  s'e,  'in  the  house  o'  the  Lord?' 

"'Why,  Timothy,'  says  his  wife,  helpless,  'it's 
all  warm  there  now,  an*  we  don't  know  what  else. 
We  thought  we'd  carry  up  their  supper  to  'em  —  ' 

"Supper,'   says  Timothy,   'in  the  house  o'  the 
Lord?' 

"Then  Mis'  Toplady  spunks  up  some. 
:'Why,  yes,'  she   says;   'I'm   goin'   to   milk  the 
Jersey  an'  take  up  the  two  pails.' 

"Timothy  waves  his  barked  arm  in  the  air. 

" '  Never ! '  s'e.  '  Never.  We  elders'll  never  con- 
sent to  that,  not  in  this  world ! ' 

"At  that  we  all  stood  around  sort  o'  pinned  to  the 
air.  This  hadn't  occurred  to  nobody.  But  his 
wife  was  back  at  him,  rill  crispy. 

"'Timothy  Toplady,'  s'she,  'they  use  churches 
for  horspitals  an'  refuges,'  she  says. 

"'They  do,'  says  Timothy,  solemn,  'they  do, 
in  necessity,  an'  war,  an'  siege.  But  here's  the 
whole  o'  Friendship  Village  to  take  these  children 
in,  an'  it's  sacrilege  to  use  the  house  o'  God  for  any 


96  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

purpose  whatever  while  it's  waitin'  its  dedication. 
It's  stealin',  he  says,  'from  the  Lord  Most  High/ 

"I  never  see  anybody  more  het  up.  We  all  tried 
to  tell  him.  Nobody  in  Friendship  has  a  warm 
spare  room  in  winter,  without  it's  the  Proudfits, 
an'  they  was  in  Europe  an'  their  house  locked. 
Mebbe  six  of  us,  we  counted  up  afterwards,  could  'a' 
took  in  two  children  to  sleep  in  a  cold  room,  or  one 
child  to  sleep  with  some  one  o'  the  family.  But 
as  Abel  said,  where  was  the  time  to  canvass  round  ? 
An'  what  could  we  do  with  the  other  little  things  ? 
But  Timothy  wouldn't  listen  to  nothin'. 

"Amanda,'  s'e  in  a  married  voice,  'what  I  say 
is  this,  I  forbid  you  to  carry  a  drop  o'  Jersey  milk 
or  any  other  kind  o'  milk  up  to  that  church/ 

"With  that  he  was  out  the  front  door  an'  liniment 
forgot. 

"Mis'  Sykes  spatted  her  hands. 

"'He'll  find  Silas  Sykes  an'  Eppleby,'  she  says 
to  Mis'  Holcomb.  'Quick.  Le's  us  get  our  hands 
on  my  bread  an'  your  cookies.  Them  poor  little 
things  —  'way  past  their  supper  hour.' 

"'An'  none  of 'em  got  mothers/  says  Mis'  Sturgis, 
'just  left  'round  with  lockets  on,  I  sp'ose,  an'  wrecked 
an'  hungry.  .  .  / 

"'An'  one  o'  'em  lame/  Mame  Holcomb  puts  in, 
down  on  her  knees  tryin'  to  sort  out  her  overshoes. 
The  Sodality  never  could  tell  its  own  overshoes. 


THE  BIG  WIND  97 

"Well,  they  scattered  so  quick  it  made  you  think  o' 
mulberry  leaves,  some  years,  in  the  first  frost  —  an' 
I  was  left  alone  with  Mis'  Toplady. 

"'Here,'  she  says  to  me  then,  all  squintin'  with 
firmness,  'you  take  along  all  the  linen  an'  com- 
fortables you  can  lug.  Timothy  didn't  mention 
them.  An'  leave  the  rest  to  me' 

"I  went  over  that  in  my  mind  while  I  stumbled 
along  back  to  the  church,  loaded  down.  But  I 
couldn't  make  much  out  of  it.  I  knew  Timothy 
Toplady :  that  he  was  meek  till  he  turned  an'  then 
it  was  look  out.  An'  I  knew,  too,  that  Timothy 
could  run  Silas  Sykes,  the  postmaster's  political 
strength,  like  you've  noticed,  makin'  him  kind  o' 
wobbled  in  his  own  judgment  of  other  things.  I 
didn't  know  how  Eppleby  Holcomb'd  be  —  it  might 
turn  out  to  be  one  o'  the  things  he'd  up  an'  ques- 
tion, civilized,  but  I  wa'n't  sure.  Anyhow,  the 
cream  cookies  an'  the  two  loaves  wasn't  so  vital  as 
them  five  loaves  o'  bread. 

"When  I  got  back  to  the  church,  here  it  was  all 
lit  up.  Abel  had  lit  the  chandelier  on  a  secular 
scene !  Bless  'em,  it  surely  was  secular,  though, 
accordin'  to  my  lights,  it  was  some  sacred  too.  Six 
or  seven  of  the  little  things  was  buildin'  a  palace 
out  o'  the  split  wood,  with  the  little  lame  girl  for 
queen.  The  little  blonde  an'  the  one  that  was  rill 
delicate  lookin'  had  gone  to  sleep  by  the  stove  on 


$  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

Abel's  overcoat.  Mitsy,  she  run  from  somewheres 
an'  grabbed  my  hand.  An*  Abel  had  the  rest  over 
by  the  other  stove  tellin'  'em  stories.  I  heard  him 
say  dragon,  an*  blue  velvet,  an'  golden  hair. 

"I  hadn't  more'n  got  inside  the  door  before 
Zittelhof's  wagon  come  with  the  cots.  An'  Mis' 
Zittelhof  was  with  him,  her  arms  full  o'  bedclothes 
she'd  gathered  up  around  from  folks.  I  never  said 
a  word  to  Abel  about  the  trouble  with  Timothy. 
I  donno  if  Abel  rilly  heard  us  come  in,  he  was  so 
excited  about  his  dragon.  An'  Mis'  Zittelhof  an' 
I  began  makin'  up  the  cots.  On  the  first  one  I 
laid  the  two  babies  that  was  asleep  on  the  floor. 
They  never  woke  up.  Their  little  cheeks  was 
warm  an*  pink,  an'  one  of  'em  had  some  tears  on  it. 
When  I  see  that,  I  clear  forgot  the  church  wasn't 
dedicated,  an'  I  thanked  God  they  was  there,  safe 
an'  by  a  good  fire,  with  somebody  'tendin'  to  'em. 

"The  bed-makin'  an'  the  story-tellin'  an'  the 
palace-buildin'  went  on,  an'  I  kep'  gettin'  exciteder 
every  minute.  When  the  door  opened,  I  couldn't 
tell  which  was  in  my  mouth,  my  heart  or  my  tongue. 
But  it  was  only  Libbie  Liberty  with  the  big  iron 
kettle  o'  chicken  broth  an'  a  basket  o'  cups  an' 
spoons.  She  se'  down  the  kettle  on  the  stove  an' 
stirred  up  the  fire  under  it,  an'  it  was  no  time  before 
the  whole  church  begun  to  smell  savoury  as  a 
kitchen.  An'  then  in  walks  Mis'  Holcomb  with 


THE  BIG  WIND  99 

her  brown  bread  an'  cream  cookies.  An*  we  fair 
jumped  up  an'  down  when  Mis'  Sykes  come  breathin' 
in  the  door  with  them  five  loaves  o*  wheat  bread 
safe,  an'  butter  to  match. 

"Still,  we  was  without  milk.  There  wasn't  a 
sign  o'  Mis'  Toplady.  An'  any  minute  Timothy 
might  get  there  with  Silas  in  tow.  Mis'  Sykes  was 
nervous  as  a  witch  over  it,  an'  it  was  her  proposed 
we  set  the  children  up  on  the  cots  an'  begin'  feedin' 
'em  right  away.  I  run  down  the  room  to  tell  Abel, 
an'  then  I  hed  to  tell  him  why  we'd  best  hurry. 

"Abel  laughs  a  little  when  he  heard  about  it. 

"'Dear  old  Timothy,'  he  says,  'servin'  his  God 
accordin'  to  the  dictates  of  his  own  notions.  Wait 
a  minute  till  I  release  the  princess.' 

"When  he  said  that,  I  was  afraid  he  must  be 
telling  a  worldly  story  with  royalty  in.  An'  I  begun 
to  get  troubled  myself.  But  I  heard  him  end  it: 
'So  the  Princess  found  her  kingdom  because  she 
learnt  to  love  every  living  thing.  She  saved  the 
lives  of  the  hare  an'  the  goldfinch.  An'  don't  you 
ever  let  any  living  thing  suffer  one  minute  and  maybe 
you'll  find  out  some  of  the  things  the  Princess  knew.' 
An',  royalty  or  not,  I  felt  all  right  about  Abel's 
story-telling  after  that. 

"Then  we  all  brisked  round  an'  begun  settin' 
the  children  up  on  the  cots  —  two  or  three  to  a  cot, 
with  one  of  us  to  wait  on  'em.  An'  both  the  little 


ioo  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

sleepy  ones  woke  up,  too.  An*  when  we  sliced  an' 
spread  the  bread  an'  dished  the  hot  chicken  broth 
an*  see  how  hungry  they  all  seemed,  I  declare  if 
one  of  us  could  feel  wicked.  The  little  things'd 
begun  to  talk  some  by  then,  an'  they  chatted  soft 
an'  looked  up  at  us,  an'  that  little  Mitsy  —  she'd 
got  so  she'd  kiss  me  every  time  I'd  ask  her.  An' 
I  was  perfectly  shameless.  I  donno's  the  poor 
little  thing  got  enough  to  eat.  But  sometimes 
when  things  go  blue  —  I  like  to  think  about  that. 
I  guess  we  was  all  the  same.  Our  principal  feelin* 
was  how  dear  they  was,  an'  to  hurry  up  before 
Timothy  Toplady  got  there,  an'  how  we  wish't 
we  hed  more  milk. 

"Then  all  of  a  sudden  while  we  was  flyin'  round, 
I  happened  to  go  past  the  front  door,  an'  I  heard 
a  noise  in  the  entry.  I  thought  o'  Timothy  an' 
Silas,  comin'  with  sheriffs  an'  firearms  an'  I  didn't 
know  what  —  Silas  havin'  politics  back  of  him,  so; 
an'  I  rec'lect  I  planned,  wild  an'  contradictory, 
first  about  callin'  an  instantaneous  congregational 
meetin'  to  decide  which  was  right,  an'  then  about 
telegraphin'  to  the  City  for  constituted  authority  to 
do  as  we  was  doin',  an'  then  about  Abel  fightin' 
Timothy  an'  Silas  both,  if  it  come  rilly  necessary. 

"I  got  hold  o'  Mis'  Sykes  an'  Mame  Holcomb, 
an'  told  'em  quiet.  'Somethin's  the  matter  out- 
side there,'  I  says  to  'em,  kind  o'  warnin',  'an'  I 


THE  BIG  WIND' 


;>>  :>  tea- 


thought  you  two'd  ought  to  know  it.'     An'  we  all 
three  come  'round  by  the  entry  door,  careless,  an 
listened.     An'  the  noise  kep'   up,  kind  o'  soft  an* 
obstinate,  an'  we  couldn't  make  it  out. 

"'We'd  best  go  out  there  an'  see,'  says  Mis'  Sykes, 
low;  'the  dear  land  knows  what  men  will  do.' 

"So  we  watched  our  chance  an'  slipped  out  — 
an'  I  guess,  for  all  our  high  ways,  we  was  all  three 
wonderin'  inside,  was  we  rilly  doin'  right.  You 
know  your  doubts  come  thick  when  there's  a  noise 
in  the  entry.  But  Mis'  Sykes  acted  as  brave  as  two, 
an'  it  was  her  shut  the  door  to  behind  us. 

"An'  there,  right  by  that  stone  just  outside  the 
entry  o'  the  church,  set  Mis'  Timothy  Toplady, 
milkin  her  Jersey  cow. 

"We  could  just  see  her,  dim,  by  the  light  o'  the 
transom.  She  was  on  the  secunt  pail,  an'  that  was 
two-thirds  full.  She  hed  her  back  toward  us,  an' 
she  didn't  hear  us.  She  set  all  wrapped  up  in  a 
shawl,  a  basket  o'  cups  side  of  her,  an'  the  Jersey 
standin'  there,  quiet  an'  demure.  An'  beyond, 
in  the  cut  an'  movin'  acrost  the  Pump  pasture,  it 
was  thick  with  lanterns. 

"  But  before  we  three'd  hed  time  to  burst  out  like 
we  wanted  to,  we  sort  o'  scrooched  back  again. 
Because  on  the  other  side  o'  the  cow  we  heard 
Timothy  Toplady's  voice.  He'd  just  got  there, 
some  breathless,  an'  with  him,  we  see,  was  Eppleby, 


io. <  FR-teNDSHIP   VILLAGE 

"Amanda/  says  Timothy,  'what  in  the  Dominion 
o'  Canady  air  you  doin'  ?' 

"'I  shouldn't  think  you  would  know/  says  Mis' 
Toplady,  short.  'You  don't  do  enough  of  it.' 

"She  hed  him  there.  Timothy  always  will  go 
down  to  the  Dick  Dasher  an'  shirk  the  chores. 

"Amanda/    says    Timothy,    'you've    disobeyed 
me   flat-footed.' 

"'No  such  thing/  s'she,  milkin'  away  like  mad  for 
fear  he'd  use  force;  'I  ain't  carried  a  drop  o'  milk 
here.  I've  drove  it/  she  says. 

"Timothy  groaned. 

"'  Milkin'  in  the  church/  he  says. 
"No,  sir/  says  Amanda,  back  at  him;  'I'm  out- 
side on  the  sod,  an'  you  know  it.' 

"An'  then  my  hopes  sort  o'  riz,  because  I  thought 
I  heard  Eppleby  Holcomb  laugh  soft  —  sort  of 
a  half-an'-half  chuckle.  Like  he'd  looked  under 
the  situation  an'  see  it  wasn't  alike  on  both  sides. 
An'  't  the  same  time  Mis'  Toplady,  she  changed 
her  way,  an',  — 

"'Timothy/    s'she,    'you   hungry?' 

"'I'm  nigh  starved/  says  Timothy.  'It  must  be 
eight  o'clock/  s'e,  'but  I  ain't  the  heart  to  think  o' 
that.' 

"'No/  s'she,  'so  you  ain't.  Not  with  them  poor 
babies  in  there  hungrier'n  you  be  an'  nowheres 
to  go/ 


THE  BIG  WIND  103 

"With  that  she  got  done  milkin'  an'  stood  up  an' 
picked  up  her  two  pails  —  we  could  smell  the  sweet, 
warm  milk  from  where  we  was. 

"'Timothy,'  s'she,  'the  worst  sacrilege  that's 
done  in  this  world  is  when  folks  turns  their  backs 
on  any  little  bit  of  a  chance  that  the  Lord  gives  'em 
to  do  good  in,  like  He  told  'em.  Who  was  it,  I'd 
like  to  know,  said,  "Suffer  little  children"?  Who 
was  it  said,  "Feed  my  lambs"?  No  "when"  or 
"where"  about  that.  Just  do  it.  An'  no  occasion 
to  hem  an'  haw  about  it,  either.  The  least  you  can 
do  for  your  share  in  this,  as  I  see  it,  is  to  keep  your 
silence  and  drive  the  cow  back  home.  The  oven's 
full  o'  bake'  sweet  potatoes  an'  they  must  be  just 
nearin'  done.' 

"  I  see  Timothy  start  to  wave  his  arms  an'  I  donno 
what  he  would  'a'  said  if  it  hadn't  been  settled  for 
'im.  For  then,  like  it  was  right  out  o'  the  sky,  the 
church  organ  begun  to  play  soft.  For  a  minute 
we  all  looked  up,  like  the  Shepherds  must  of  when 
the  voices  of  the  night  told  'em  the  spirit  o'  God 
was  in  the  world,  born  in  a  little  child.  It  was 
Abel,  —  I  knew  right  away  it  was  Abel,  —  an'  he 
was  just  gentlin'  round  soft  on  the  keys,  kind  o' 
like  he  was  askin'  a  blessin'  an'  rockin'  a  cradle 
an'  doin'  all  the  little  nice  things  music  can.  An' 
with  that  Mis'  Sykes,  she  throws  open  the  church 
door. 


?04  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"I'll  never  forget  how  it  looked  inside  —  all 
warm  an'  lamp-lit  an'  with  them  little  things  bein' 
fed  an'  chatterin'  soft.  An'  up  in  the  loft  set  Abel, 
play  in'  away  on  the  foreign  organ  before  it'd  been 
dedicated.  An'  then  he  begun  singin'  low  —  an' 
there's  somethin'  about  Abel 't  you  just  baf  to  listen, 
whatever  he  says  or  does.  Even  Timothy  hed  to 
listen  —  though  I  think  he  was  some  struck  dumb, 
too,  an'  that  kep'  him  controlled  for  a  minute  — 
like  it  will.  An'  Abel  sung :  — 

'"The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd  —  I  shall  not  want. 
He  maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  green  pastures, 
He  leadeth  me  —  He  leadeth  me  beside  the  still  waters. 
He  restoreth  my  soul.  .  .  .' 

"An*  at  the  first  line,  before  we'd  rilly  sensed 
what  it  was  he  said,  every  one  o'  them  little  children 
in  the  midst  o'  their  supper  slips  off  the  edge  o'  the 
cots  an'  kneeled  down  there  on  the  bare  floor,  just 
like  they'd  been  told  to.  Oh,  wasn't  it  wonderful  ? 
An'  yet  it  wasn't  —  it  wasn't.  We  found  out, 
when  folks  come  for  'em  the  next  mornin',  it  was 
the  children's  prayer  that  they  sung  every  day  o' 
their  lives  at  their  Good  Shepherd's  Orphans' 
Home  —  soft  an'  out  o'  tune  an'  with  all  their  little 
hearts,  just  as  they  went  ahead  an'  sung  it  with 
Abel,  clear  to  the  end.  I  guess  they  didn't  know 
everybody  don't  kneel  down  all  over  the  world  when 
they  hear  the  Twenty-third  Psalm. 


THE  BIG  WIND  105 

"Abel  seen  'em  in  the  little  lookin'-glass  over  the 
keyboard.  An'  when  he'd  got  done  he  set  there 
perfectly  still  with  his  head  down.  An*  Mis'  Sykes 
an*  Mis'  Holcomb  an'  Eppleby  an'  I  bowed  our 
heads  too,  out  there  in  the  entry.  An'  so,  after 
a  minute,  did  Timothy.  I  couldn't  help  peekin' 
to  see. 

"An'  then,  when  the  children  was  all  a-rustlin' 
up,  Mis'  Toplady  she  jus'  hands  her  two  pails  o' 
milk  over  to  Timothy. 

'"You  take  'em  in,'  she  says  to  him,  her  eyes 
swimmin'.  'I've  come  off  without  my  handker- 
chief.' 

"Timothy  looks  round  him,  kind  o'  helpless,  but 
Eppleby  stood  there  an'  pats  him  on  the  arm. 

"'Go  in  —  go  in,  brother,5  Eppleby  says  gentle. 
'I  guess  the  church's  been  dedicated.  I  feel  like 
we'd  heard  the  big  wind  —  an'  I  guess,  mebbe,  the 
Pentecostal  tongues.' 

"An'  Timothy  —  he's  an  awful  tender-hearted 
man  in  spite  o'  bein'  so  notional  —  Timothy  just 
went  on  in  with  the  milk,  without  sayin'  anything. 
An'  Eppleby  side  of  him.  An'  we  'most  shut  the 
door  on  Silas  Sykes,  comin'  tearin'  up  on  account 
o'  Timothy  leavin'  him  urgent  word  to  come,  with- 
out explainin'  why.  An'  when  Silas  see  the  inside 
o'  the  church,  all  lit  up  an'  chicken  supper  for  the 
children  an'  the  other  two  elders  there  with  the 


io6  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

milk,  he  just  rubs  his  hands  an*  beams  like  he  sec 
his  secunt  term.  I  donno's  it'd  ever  enter  Silas 
Sykes's  head't  there  was  anything  wrong  with  any- 
thing, providin'  somebody  wasn't  snappin'  him  up 
for  it.  I  guess  it's  like  that  in  politics. 

"We  took  the  milk  around  an',  bake'  sweet  po- 
tatoes forgot,  Timothy  stood  up  by  the  stove,  be- 
tween Eppleby  an'  Silas,  an'  watched  us  —  an* 
the  Jersey  must  'a'  picked  her  way  home  alone. 
An*  Abel,  he  just  set  there  to  the  organ,  gentlin' 
'round  soft  on  the  keys  so  it  made  me  think  o'  God 
movin'  on  the  face  o'  the  waters.  An'  movin' 
on  the  face  of  everything  else  too,  dedicated  or 
not.  It  was  like  we'd  felt  the  big  wind,  same  as 
Eppleby  said.  An*  somethin'  in  it  kind  o'  hid, 
secret  an*  holy.'* 


VIII 

THE    GRANDMA    LADIES 

Two  weeks  before  Christmas  Friendship  was 
thrown  into  a  state  of  holiday  delight.  Mrs.  Proud- 
fit  and  her  daughter,  Miss  Clementina,  issued  in- 
vitations to  a  reception  to  be  given  on  Christmas 
Eve  at  Proudfit  House,  on  Friendship  Hill.  The 
Proudfits,  who  had  rarely  entertained  since  Miss 
Linda  went  away,  lived  in  Europe  and  New  York 
and  spent  little  time  in  the  village,  but,  for  all  that, 
they  remained  citizens  in  absence,  and  Friendship 
always  wrote  out  invitations  for  them  whenever  it 
gave  "companies."  The  invitations  the  postmaster 
duly  forwarded  to  some  Manhattan  bank,  though  I 
think  the  village  had  a  secret  conviction  that  these 
were  never  received  —  "  sent  out  wild  to  a  bank  in  the 
City,  so."  However,  now  that  old  courtesies  were  to 
be  so  magnificently  returned,  every  one  believed  and 
felt  a  greater  respect  for  the  whole  financial  world. 

The  invitations  enclosed  the  card  of  Mrs.  Nita 
Ordway,  and  the  name  sounded  for  me  a  note  of 

107 


io8  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

other  days  when,  before  my  coming  to  Friendship 
Village,  we  two  had,  in  the  town,  belonged  to  one 
happy  circle  of  friends. 

"I  thought  at  first  mebbe  the  card'd  got  shoved 
in  the  envelope  by  mistake,"  said  Mis'  Holcomb- 
that-was-Mame-Bliss.  "I  know  once  I  got  a 
Christmas  book  from  a  cousin  o'  mine  in  the  City, 
an'  a  strange  man's  card  fell  out  o'  the  leaves.  I 
sent  the  card  right  straight  back  to  her,  an'  Cousin 
Jane  seemed  rill  cut  up,  so  I  made  up  my  mind 
I'd  lay  low  about  this  card.  But  I  hear  everybody's 
got  'em.  I  s'pose  it's  a  sign  that  it's  some  Mis' 
Ordway's  party  too  —  only  not  enough  hers  to  get 
her  name  on  the  invite.  Mebbe  she  chipped  in  on 
the  expenses.  Give  a  third,  like  enough." 

However  that  was,  Friendship  looked  on  the 
Christmas  party  as  on  some  unexpected  door  about 
to  open  in  its  path,  and  it  woke  in  the  morning 
conscious  of  expectation  before  it  could  remember 
what  to  expect.  Proudfit  House !  A  Christmas 
party !  It  touched  every  one  as  might  some  giant 
Santa  Claus,  for  grown-ups,  with  a  pack  of  heart' s- 
ease  on  his  back. 

When  Mrs.  Ordway  arrived  in  the  village,  the 
excitement  mounted.  Mrs.  Nita  Ordway  was  the 
first  exquisitely  beautiful  woman  of  the  great  world 
whom  Friendship  had  ever  seen  —  "beautiful  like 
in  the  pictures  of  when  noted  folks  was  young," 


THE  GRANDMA  LADIES  109 

the  village  breathlessly  summed  her  up.  To  be  sure, 
when  she  and  her  little  daughter,  Viola,  rode  out  in 
the  Proudfits*  motor,  nobody  in  the  street  appeared 
to  look  at  them.  But  Friendship  knew  when  they 
rode,  and  when  they  walked,  and  what  they  wore, 
and  when  they  returned. 

It  was  a  happiness  to  me  to  see  Mrs.  Ordway 
again,  and  I  sat  often  with  her  in  the  music  room 
at  Proudfit  House  and  listened  to  her  glorious  voice 
in  just  the  songs  that  I  love.  Sometimes  she  would 
send  for  her  little  Viola,  so  that  I  might  sit  with 
the  child  in  my  arms,  for  she  was  one  of  those 
rare  children  who  will  let  you  love  them. 

"I  like  be  made  some  Mention  to,"  Viola  some- 
times said  shyly.  She  was  not  afraid,  and  she 
would  stay  with  me  hour-long,  as  if  she  loved  to  be 
loved.  She  was  like  a  little  come-a-purpose  spirit, 
to  let  one  pretend. 

A  day  or  two  after  the  invitations  had  been  re- 
ceived, I  was  in  my  guest  room  going  over  my 
Christmas  list.  Just  before  Christmas  I  delight  in 
the  look  of  a  guest  room,  for  then  the  bed  is  spread 
with  a  brave  array  of  pretty  things,  and  when  one 
arranges  and  wraps  them,  the  stitches  of  rose  and 
blue  on  flowered  fabrics,  the  flutter  of  crisp  ribbons, 
and  the  breath  of  sachets  make  one  glad.  I  was 
lingering  at  my  task  when  I  heard  some  one  below, 
and  I  recognized  her  voice. 


:io  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"Calliope!"  I  called  gladly  from  the  stairs,  and 
bade  her  come  up  to  me. 

Calliope  is  one  of  the  women  in  whose  presence 
one  can  wrap  one's  Christmas  gifts.  She  came 
into  the  room,  bringing  a  breath  of  Winter,  and 
she  laid  aside  her  tan  ulster  and  her  round  straw 
hat,  and  straightway  sat  down  on  the  rug  by  the 
open  fire. 

"Well  said!"  she  cried  contentedly,  "a  grate 
fire  upstairs !  It's  one  of  the  things  that  never 
seems  real  to  me,  like  a  tower  on  a  house.  I'd  as 
soon  think  o'  havin'  a  grate  fire  up  a  tree  an'  settin' 
there,  as  in  my  chamber.  Anyway,  when  it  comes 
Winter,  upstairs  in  Friendship  is  just  a  place  where 
you  go  after  something  in  the  bureau  draw'  an' 
come  down  again  as  quick  as  you  can.  I  s'pose 
you  got  an  invite  to  the  party?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "and  you  will  go,  Calliope?" 

But  instead  of  answering  me :  — 

"My  land!"  she  said,  "think  of  it !  A  party 
like  that,  an'  not  a  low-necked  waist  in  town,  nor 
a  swallow-tail !  An'  only  two  weeks  to  do  any- 
thing in,  an*  only  Liddy  Ember  for  dressmaker, 
an'  it  takes  her  two  weeks  to  make  a  dress.  I  guess 
Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes  has  got  her.  They  say  she 
read  her  invite  in  the  post-office  with  one  hand  an' 
snapped  up  that  tobacco-brown  net  in  the  post- 
office  store  window  with  the  other,  an'  out  an'  up 


THE  GRANDMA   LADIES  ni 

to  Liddy's  an'  hired  her  before  she  was  up  from 
the  breakfast  table.  So  she  gets  the  town  new  dress. 
Mis'  Sykes  is  terrible  quick-moved." 

"What  will  you  wear,  Calliope?"  I  asked. 

"Me  —  I  never  wear  anything  but  henriettas," 
she  said.  "I  think  the  plainer-faced  you  are,  the 
simpler  you'd  ought  to  be  dressed.  I  use'  to  fix  up 
terrible  ruffled,  but  when  I  see  I  was  reg'lar  plain- 
faced  I  stuck  to  henriettas,  mostly  gray  — " 

"Calliope,"  I  said  resolutely,  "you  don't  mean 
you're  not  going  to  the  Proudfit  party?" 

She  clasped  her  hands  and  held  them,  palms 
outward,  over  her  mouth,  and  her  eyes  twinkled 
above  them. 

"No,  sir,"  she  said,  "I  can't  go.  You'll  laugh 
at  me!"  she  defended.  "Don't  you  tell!"  she 
warned.  And  finally  she  told  me. 

"Day  before  yesterday,"  she  said,  "I  went  into 
the  City.  An'  I  come  out  on  the  trolley.  An'  I 
donno  what  possessed  me,  —  I  ain't  done  it  for 
months,  —  but  when  we  crossed  the  start  of  the 
Plank  Road,  I  got  off  an'  went  up  an'  visited  the 
Old  Ladies'  Home.  You  know  I've  always  thought," 
she  broke  off,  "  —  well,  you  know  I  ain't  a  rill  lot 
to  do  with,  an'  I  always  had  an  i-dee  that  mebbe 
sometime,  when  I  got  older,  I  might  — " 

I  nodded,  and  she  went  on. 

"Well,    I   walked    around    among   'em    up   there 


H2  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

—  canary  birds  an*  plants  an'  footstools  —  an*  the 
whole  thing  fixed  up  so  cheerful  that  it's  pitiful. 
Red  wall-paper  an'  flowered  curtains  an'  such,  all 
fair  yellin'  at  you,  *  We're  cheerful  —  cheerful  — 
cheerful!'  till  I  like  to  run.  An'  it  come  over  me, 
bein'  so  near  Christmas  an'  all,  what  would  they 
do  on  Christmas  ?  So  I  asked  a  woman  in  a  navy- 
blue  dress,  seein'  she  flipped  around  like  she  was 
the  flag  o'  the  place. 

'The  south  corridor/  she  answers,  —  them's 
the  highest  payin"  —  Calliope  threw  in,  "'chipped 
in  an'  got  up  a  tree,  an'  there's  gifts  for  all,' 
s'she.  'The  west  corridor'  —  them's  the  local  city 
ones  — '  all  has  friends  to  take  'em  away  for  the 
day.  The  east  corridor'  —  they're  from  farther 
away  an'  middlin'  well-to-do  —  'all  has  boxes 
comin'  to  'em  from  off.  But  the  north  corridor,' 
s'she,  scowlin'  some,  'is  rather  a  trial  to  us.J 

"An'  I  was  waitin'  for  that.  The  north  cor- 
ridor is  all  charity  old  ladies,  paid  for  out  o'  the 
fund;  an'  the  president  o'  the  home  has  just  died, 
an'  the  secretary's  in  the  old  country  on  a  pleasure 
trip,  an'  the  board's  in  a  row  over  the  policy  o'  the 
home,  an'  the  navy-blue  matron  dassent  act,  an' 
altogether  it  looked  like  the  north  corridor  was 
goin'  to  get  a  regular  mid-week  Wednesday  instead 
of  a  Christmas.  An'  I  up  an'  ast'  her  to  take  me 
down  to  see  'em.'5 


THE   GRANDMA   LADIES  113 

It  was  easy  to  see  what  Calliope  had  done,  I 
thought :  she  had  promised  to  sper  1  Christmas  Eve 
over  there  in  the  north  corridor,  reading  aloud. 

"They  was  nine  of  'em,"  she  went  on,  "nice  old 
grandma  ladies,  with  hands  that  looked  like  they'd 
ought  to  'a'  been  tyin'  little  aprons  an*  cuttin'  out 
cookies  an'  squeezin'  somebody  else's  hand.  There 
they  set,  with  the  wall-paper  doin'  its  cheerfulest, 
loud  as  an  insult,  —  one  of  'em  with  lots  o'  white 
hair,  one  of  'em  singin'  a  little,  some  of  'em  tryin' 
to  sew  or  knit  some.  My  land!"  said  Calliope, 
"when  we  think  of  'em  sittin'  up  an'  down  the 
world  —  with  their  arms  all  empty  —  an'  Christmas 
comin'  on  —  ain't  it  a  wonder  —  Well,  I  stayed 
'round  an'  talked  to  'em,"  she  went  on,  "while  the 
navy-blue  lady  whisked  her  starched  skirts  some. 
She  seemed  too  busy  'tendin'  to  'em  to  give  'em 
much  attention.  An'  they  looked  rill  pleased  when 
I  talked  to  'em  about  their  patchwork  an'  knittin', 
an'  did  they  get  the  sun  all  day,  an'  didn't  the  canary 
sort  o'  shave  somethin'  off'n  the  human  ear-drum, 
on  his  tiptop  notes  ?  An'  when  I  said  that,  Grandma 
Holly  —  her  with  lots  o'  white  hair  —  says :  — 

"'I  donno  but  it  does,'  she  says,  'but  I  don't 
mind;  I'm  so  thankful  to  see  somethin'  around 
that's  little  an  young.9 

"That  sort  o'  landed  in  my  heart.  It*L  just 
what  I'd  been  thinkin'  about  'em. 


ii4  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"Little,  young  things/  s'l,  sort  o'  careless,  'make 
a  lot  o'  racket,  }  u  know.' 

"At  that  old  Mis'  Burney  pipes  up  —  her  that 
brought  up  her  daughter's  children  an'  her  son- 
in-law  married  again  an'  turned  her  out:  — 

"I  use'  to  think  so/  she  says  quiet;  'the  noise 
o'  the  children  use'  to  bother  me  terrible.  When 
they  reely  got  to  goin'  I  use'  to  think  I  couldn't 
stand  it,  my  head  hurt  me  so.  But  now/  s'she, 
'I  get  to  thinkin'  sometimes  I  wouldn't  mind  a 
horse-fiddle  if  some  of  'em  played  it.' 

"'They're  lots  o'  company,  the  little  things/ 
says  old  Mis'  Norris  —  she'd  kep'  mislayin'  her 
teeth  an'  the  navy-blue  lady  had  took  'em  away 
from  her  that  day  for  to  teach  her,  so  I  couldn't 
hardly  understand  what  she  said.  'Mine  was 
named  Ellen  an'  Nancy/  I  made  out. 

"Some  o' you  remember  my  Sam/ -- Mis'  Ail- 
ing speaks  up  then,  an'  she  begun  windin'  up  her 
yarn  an'  never  noticed  she  was  ravellin'  out  her  mit- 
ten, —  'he  was  an  alderman/  she  was  goin'  on,  but 
old  Mis'  Winslow  cuts  in  on  her:  — 

"It  don't  matter  what  he  was  when  he  was 
man-grown/  s'she.  'Man-grown  can  get  along 
themselves.  It's  when  they're  little  bits  o'  ones/ 
she  says. 

"'Little!'  says  Grandma  Holly.  'Is  it  little 
you  mean  ?  Well,  my  Amy's  two  little  feet  use* 


THE  GRANDMA  LADIES  115 

to  be  swallowed  up  in  my  hand  —  so/  she  says, 
shuttin'  her  hand  over  to  show  us. 

"Well,  so  they  went  on.  I  give  you  my  word 
I  stood  there  sort  o'  grippin'  up  on  my  elbows. 
I'd  always  known  it  was  so  —  like  you  do  know 
things  are  so.  But  somehow  when  you  come  to 
feel  they're  so,  that's  another  thing.  And  I  was 
feelin'  this  in  my  throat  'bout  as  big  as  an  orange. 
I'd  thought  their  hands  looked  like  they'd  ought 
to  be  tyin'  up  little  aprons,  but  I  never  thought 
o'  the  hands  bein'  rill  lonesome  to  do  the  tyin', 
an'  thinkin'  about  it,  too.  An'  now  I  understood 
'em  like  I  see  'em  for  the  first  time,  rill  face  to  face. 
Somehow,  we  ain't  any  too  apt  to  look  at  people 
that  way,"  said  Calliope.  "You  see  how  I  mean  it. 

"Then  comes  the  navy-blue  woman  an'  says  it's 
time  for  their  hot  milk,  an'  they  all  looked  up,  kind 
o'  hopeful.  An'  I  see  that  the  navy-blue  one  had  got 
'em  trained  into  the  i-dee  that  hot  milk  was  an  event. 
She  didn't  like  to  hev  'em  talk  much  about  the  past, 
she  told  me,  when  she  see  what  we  was  speakin'  of, 
because  it  gener'lly  made  some  of  'em  cry,  an'  the 
i-dee  was  to  keep  the  spirit  of  the  home  bright  an' 
cheerful.  'So  I  see,'  s'l,  dry.  An'  there  was 
Christmas  comin'  on,  an'  nothin'  to  break  the 
general  cheerfulness  but  hot  milk.  Well,"  Calliope 
said,  "I  s'pose  you'll  think  I'm  terrible  foolish, 
but  I  couldn't  help  what  I  done  — " 


ii6  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"I  don't  wonder  at  it,"  said  I,  warmly;  "you 
promised  to  spend  Christmas  Eve  with  them  and 
read  aloud  to  them,  didn't  you,  Calliope?" 

"No!"  Calliope  cried;  "I  didn't  do  that.  I 
should  think  they'd  be  sick  to  death  o'  bein'  read 
aloud  to.  I  should  think  they'd  be  sick  to  death 
bein'  cheered  up  by  their  surroundin's.  No  — 
I  invited  the  whole  nine  of  'em  to  come  over  an' 
spend  Christmas  Eve  with  me." 

"Calliope!"  I  cried,  "but  how—" 

"I  know  it,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  know  it.  But 
they're  all  well  an'  hardy.  The  charity  corridor  ain't 
expected  in  the  infirmary  much.  An'  Jimmy  Sturgis 
is  goin'  to  bring  'em  over  free  in  the  closed  'bus 
—  I'll  fill  it  with  hot  bricks  an'  hot  flat-irons  an' 
bed-quilts.  An'  my  land !  you'd  ought  to  see  'em 
when  I  ask'  'em.  I  don't  s'pose  they'd  had  an  invite 
out  in  years.  The  navy-blue  lady  looked  like  I'd 
nipped  a  mountain  off'n  her  shoulders,  too.  An' 
now,"  said  Calliope,  "what  on  top  o'  this  earth  will 
I  do  with  'em  when  I  get  'em  here  ?" 

What  indeed  ?  I  left  my  task  and  sat  by  her  on 
the  rug  before  the  fire,  and  we  talked  it  over.  But  all 
the  while  we  talked,  I  could  see  that  she  was  keeping 
something  back  —  some  plan  of  which  she  was 
doubtful. 

"I  ain't  no  money  to  spend,  you  know,"  she  said, 
"an'  I  won't  let  anybody  else  spend  any  for  me,  for 


THE   GRANDMA   LADIES  117 

this.  Folks  has  plans  enough  o'  their  own  without 
mine.  But  I  kep'  sayin'  to  myself,  all  the  way  home 
when  my  knees  give  down  at  the  i-dee  of  what  I  was 
goin'  to  do:  'Calliope,  the  Lord  says,  "Give."  An* 
He  meant  you  to  give,  same's  those  that  hev  got. 
He  didn't  say,  "Everybody  give  but  Calliope,  an' 
she  ain't  got  much,  so  she'd  ought  to  be  let  off." 
He  said,  "Give."'  An'  He  didn't  mention  all  nice 
things,  same's  I'd  like  to  give,  an'  most  everybody 
does  give  — "  she  nodded  toward  my  bed,  brave 
with  its  Christmas  array.  "He  didn't  mention 
givin'  things  at  all.  An'  so,"  said  Calliope,  "I 
thought  o'  somethin'  else." 

She  sat  with  brooding  eyes  on  the  fire,  her  hands 
clasped  about  her  knees. 

"The  Lord  Christ,"  said  Calliope,  "didn't  hev 
nothin'  of  His  own.  An'  yet  He  just  give  an'  give  an* 
give.  An'  somehow  I  got  the  /-dee,"  she  finished, 
glancing  up  at  me  shyly,  "that  mebbe  Christmas 
ain't  really  all  in  your  stocking  foot,  after  all.  I 
ain't  much  to  spend,  and  mebbe  that  sounds  some 
like  sour  grapes.  But  it  seems  like  a  .  good  many 
beautiful  things  is  free  to  all,  an'  that  they's  ways 
to  do.  Well,  I've  thought  of  a  way  — " 

"Calliope,"  I  said,  "tell  me  what  you  have  really 
planned  for  the  old-lady  party.  You  have  planned  ?" 

"Well,  yes,"  she  said,  "  I  hev.  But  mebbe  you'll 
think  it  ain't  anything.  First  I  thought  o'  tea,  an* 


ti8  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

thin  bread-an'-butter  sandwiches  —  it  seems  some 
like  a  party  when  you  get  your  bread  thin.  An*  I've 
got  apples  in  the  house  we  could  roast,  an'  corn  to  pop 
over  the  kitchen  fire.  But  then  I  come  to  a  stop. 
For  I  ain't  nothin*  else,  an*  I've  spent  every  cent  I 
can  spend  a'ready.  But  yet  I  did  want  to  show  'em 
somethin'  lovely  —  an'  differ'nt  from  what  they  see, 
so's  it'd  seem  as  if  somebody  cared,  an'  as  if  they'd 
been  in  Christmas,  too.  An'  all  of  a  sudden  it  come 
to  me,  why  not  invite  in  a  few  little  children  o' 
somebody's  here  in  Friendship  ?  So's  them  old 
grandma  ladies  — " 

She  shook  her  head  and  turned  away. 

"I  expec',"  she  said,  "you  think  I'm  terrible 
foolish.  But  wouldn't  that  be  givin',  don't  you 
think?  Would  that  be  anything?" 

I  have  planned,  as  will  fall  to  us  all,  many 
happy  ways  of  keeping  festival;  but  I  think  that 
never,  even  in  days  when  I  myself  was  happiest, 
have  I  so  delighted  in  any  event  as  in  this  of  Cal- 
liope's proposing.  And  when  at  last  she  had  gone, 
and  the  dusk  had  fallen  and  I  lighted  candles  and 
went  back  to  my  pleasant  task,  some  way  the  stitches 
of  pink  and  blue  on  flowered  fabrics,  the  flutter 
of  crisp  ribbons,  and  the  breath  of  the  sachets  were 
not  greatly  in  my  thoughts ;  and  that  which  made  me 
glad  was  a  certain  shining  in  the  room,  but  this  was 
not  of  candle-light,  or  firelight,  or  winter  starlight. 


THE   GRANDMA  LADIES  119 

With  the  days  the  plans  for  the  Proudfit  party  — 
or  rather  the  plans  of  the  Proudfit  guests  —  went 
merrily  forward.  It  was,  they  said,  like  "in  the 
Oldmoxon  days,"  when  the  house  in  which  I  was 
now  living  had  been  the  Friendship  fairyland. 
Some  take  their  parties  solemnly,  some  joyously, 
some  feverishly;  but  Friendship  takes  them  vitally, 
as  it  takes  a  project  or  the  breath  of  being.  Like 
the  rest  of  the  world,  the  village  sank  Christmas 
in  festivity.  It  could  not  see  Christmas  for  the 
Christmas  plans. 

Speculation  was  the  delight  of  meetings,  and 
every  one  conspired  in  terms  of  toilettes. 

"Likely,"  said  Mis'  Holcomb-that-was-Mame- 
Bliss,  "Mis'  Banker  Mason'll  wear  her  black-an'- 
white  foulard.  Them  foulards  are  wonderful  dur- 
able —  you  can't  muss  'em.  She  got  hers  when 
Gramma  Mason  first  hurt  her  back,  so's  if  any- 
thing happened  she'd  be  part  mournin',  an'  if  any- 
thing didn't,  she'd  have  a  nice  dress  to  wear  out 
places.  Ain't  it  real  convenient,  —  white  standin' 
for  both  companies  an'  the  tomb,  so?" 

And  "  Mis'  Photographer  Sturgis  has  the  best  of  it, 
bein'  an  invalid,  till  a  party  comes  up,"  said  Libbie 
Liberty.  "She  gets  plenty  enough  food  sent  in, 
an'  flowers,  an'  such  things,  an'  she's  got  nails  hung 
full  o'  what  I  call  sympathy  clo'es,  to  wear  durin* 
sympathy  calls.  But  when  it  comes  to  a  real  what 


uo  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

you  might  say  dress-up  dress,  I  guess  she'll  hev  to 
be  took  worse  with  her  side  an'  stay  in  the  house." 

Abigail  Arnold  contributed :  — 

"Seems  Mis'  Doctor  Helman  had  a  whole  wine 
silk  dress  put  away  with  her  dyin'  things.  She 
always  thought  it  sounded  terrible  fine  to  hear 
about  the  dead  havin*  dress-pattern  after  dress- 
pattern  laid  away  that  hadn't  never  been  made  up. 
So  she'd  got  together  the  one,  but  now  she  an' 
Elzabella  are  goin'  to  work  an'  make  it  up.  I  guess 
Mis'  Helman  thinks  her  stomach  is  so  much  better 
't  mebbe  she'll  be  spared  till  after  the  holidays 
when  the  sales  begin." 

Even  Liddy  Ember  had  promised  to  go  and  to 
take  Ellen,  and  Ellen  went  up  and  down  the  winter 
streets  singing  sane  little  songs  about  the  party, 
save  on  days  when  she  "come  herself  again,"  and 
then  she  planned,  as  wildly  as  anybody,  what  she 
meant  to  wear.  And  Liddy,  whose  dream  had 
always  been  to  do  "reg'lar  city  dress-makin',  with 
helpers  an'  plates  an'  furnish  the  findin's  at  the  shop," 
and  whose  lot  instead  had  been  to  cut  and  fit  "just 
the  durable  kind,"  was  blithely  at  work  night  and 
day  on  Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes's  tobacco-brown  net. 
We  understood  that  there  were  to  be  brown 
velvet  butterflies  stitched  down  the  skirt,  and  if 
her  Lady  Washington  geranium  flowered  in  time, 
—  Mis'  Sykes  was  said  to  lav  bread  and  milk 


THE   GRANDMA   LADIES  121 

nightly  about  the  roots  to  encourage  it,  —  she  was  to 
wear  the  blossom  in  her  hair.  ("She'll  be  gettin' 
herself  talked  about,  wearin'  a  wreath  o'  flowers 
on  her  head,  so,"  said  some.)  But  then,  Mis' 
Sykes  was  recognized  to  be  "one  that  picks  her  own 
steps." 

"  Mis'  Sykes  always  dresses  for  company  accordin* 
to  the  way  she  gets  her  invite,"  Calliope  observed. 
"A  telephone  invite,  she  goes  in  somethin'  she'd 
wear  home  afternoons.  Word  o'  mouth  at  the 
front  door,  she  wears  what  she  wears  on  Sundays. 
Written  invites,  she  rags  out  in  her  rill  best  dress, 
for  parties.  But  engraved,"  Calliope  mounted  to 
her  climax,  "a  bran'  new  dress  an'  a  wreath  in  her 
hair  is  the  least  she'll  stop  at." 

But  I  think  that,  in  the  wish  to  do  honour  to  so 
distinguished  an  occasion,  the  temper  of  Mis'  Sykes, 
and  perhaps  of  Ellen  Ember  too,  was  the  secret 
temper  of  all  the  village. 


IX 

"NOT   AS   THE    WORLD    GIVETH*' 

I  DARESAY  that  excitement  followed  excitement 
when  news  of  Calliope's  party  got  abroad.  But  of 
this  I  knew  little,  for  I  spent  those  next  days  at  the 
Proudfits'  with  Nita  Ordway  and  little  Viola,  and 
though  I  thought  often  of  Calliope,  I  chanced  not  to 
see  her  again  until  the  holidays  were  almost  upon  us. 
In  the  late  afternoon,  two  days  before  Christmas,  I 
dropped  in  at  her  cottage  to  learn  how  pleasantly  the 
plans  for  her  party  matured. 

To  my  amazement  I  found  her  all  dejection. 

"Why,  Calliope,"  I  said,  "can't  the  grandma 
ladies  come,  after  all?" 

Yes,  they  could  come ;  they  were  coming. 

"You  are  never  sorry  you  asked  them  ?"  I  pressed 
her. 

No.     Oh,  no;    she  was  glad  she  had  asked  them. 

"Something  is  wrong,  though,"  I  said  sadly  — 
thinking  what  a  blessed  thing  it  is  to  be  so  joyous  a 
spirit  that  one's  dejections  are  bound  to  be  taken 
seriously. 

MM 


"NOT  AS   THE   WORLD   GIVETH "  123 

" Well/'  said  Calliope,  then,  "it's  the  children.  No 
it  ain't,  it's  Friendship.  The  town's  about  as  broad 
as  a  broom  straw  an'  most  as  deep.  Anything  dif- 
fer'nt  scares  'em  like  something  wore  out'd  ought  to. 
Friendship's  got  an  i-dee  that  Christmas  begins  in  a 
stocking  an'  ends  off  in  a  candle.  It  thinks  the  rest 
o'  the  days  are  reg'lar,  self-respecting  days,  but  it 
looks  on  Christmas  like  an  extry  thing,  thrown  in  to 
please  'em.  It  acts  as  if  the  rest  o'  the  year  was 
plain  cake  an'  the  holidays  was  the  frostin'  to  be  et, 
an'  everybody  grab  the  best  themselves,  give  or 
take." 

"Calliope  !"  I  cried  —  for  this  was  as  if  the  moon 
had  objected  to  the  heavens. 

"Oh,  I  know  I'd  ought  not  to,"  she  said  sadly; 
"but  don't  folks  act  as  if  time  was  give  to  'em  to  run 
around  wild  with,  as  best  suits  'em  ?  Three  hundred 
an'  'leven  days  a  year  to  use  for  themselves,  an'  Sun- 
days an'  Christmas  an'  Thanksgivin'  to  give  away 
looks  to  me  a  rill  fair  division.  But,  no.  Some 
folks  act  like  Sundays  an'  holidays  was  not  only  the 
frostin',  but  the  nuts  an'  candy  an'  ice-cream  o' 
things  —  their  ice-cream,  to  eat  an'  pass  to  their  own, 
an'  scrape  the  freezer." 

And  then  came  the  heart  of  the  matter. 
"T  seems,"  said  Calliope,  "there's  that  children's 
Christmas  tree  at  the  new  minister's  on  Christmas  Eve. 
But  that  ain't  till  ha'-past  seven,  an'  I  done  my  best 


124  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

to  hev  some  o'  the  children  stop  in  here  on  their  way, 
for  my  little  party.  An'  with  one  set  o'  lungs  their 
mas  says  no,  they'd  get  mussed  for  the  tree  if  they 
do.  I  offered  to  hev  'em  bring  their  white  dresses 
pinned  in  papers,  an'  we'd  dress  'em  here  —  I  think 
the  grandma  ladies'd  like  that.  But  their  mas 
says  no,  pinned  in  papers'd  take  the  starch  out  an' 
their  hair'd  get  all  over  their  heads.  An'  some  o'  the 
mothers  says  indignant:  'Old  ladies  from  the  poor- 
house  end  o'  the  home  —  well,  I  should  think  not ! 
Children  is  very  easy  to  take  things.  If  you'd  hed 
young  o'  your  own,  you'd  think  more,  Calliope,'  they 
says  witherin'." 

Her  little  wrinkled  hands  were  trembling  at  the 
enormity. 

"I  donno,"  she  added,  "but  I  was  foolish  to  try  it. 
But  I  did  want  to  get  a-hold  o'  somethin'  beautiful 
for  them  old  ladies  to  see.  An',  my  mind,  they  ain't 
much  so  rilly  lovely  as  little  young  children,  together 


in  a  room." 


"But,  Calliope,"  I  said  in  distress,  "isn't  there 
even  one  child  you  can  get  ?" 

"No,  sir,"  she  said.  "Not  a  one.  I  been  every- 
where. You  know  they  ain't  any  poor  in  Friend- 
ship. We're  all  comfortable  enough  off  to  be  over- 
particular." 

"But  wouldn't  you  think,"  I  said,  "at  Christmas 


time  — " 


"NOT  AS  THE  WORLD  GIVETH"  125 

"Yes,  you  would,"  Calliope  said,  "you  would. 
You'd  think  Christmas'd  make  everything  kind  o* 
softened  up  an'  differ'nt.  Every  time  I  look  at  the 
holly  myself,  I  feel  like  I'd  just  shook  hands  with 
somebody  cordial." 

None  the  less  —  for  Calliope  had  drunk  deep  of  the 
wine  of  doing  and  she  never  gave  up  any  project  —  at 
four  o'clock  on  the  day  before  Christmas  I  saw  the 
closed  'bus  driven  by  Jimmy  Sturgis  fare  briskly  past 
my  house  on  its  way  to  the  "  start  of  the  Plank  Road," 
to  the  Old  Ladies'  Home.  Within,  I  knew,  were 
quilts  and  hot  stones  of  Calliope's  providing;  and 
Jimmy  had  hung  the  'bus  windows  with  cedar,  and 
two  little  flags  fluttered  from  the  door.  It  all  had  a 
merry,  holiday  air  as  Jimmy  shook  the  lines  and  drew 
on  swiftly  through  the  snow  to  those  wistful  nine 
guests,  who  at  last  were  to  be  "in  Christmas,"  too. 

"  If  they  can't  do  nothin'  else,"  Calliope  had  said, 
"they  can  talk  over  old  times,  without  hot  milk 
interferin'.  But  I  wish,  an'  I  wish  —  seem's  though 
there'd  ought  always  to  be  a  child  around  on  Star  o' 
Bethlehem  night,  don't  it?" 

I  dined  alone  that  Star  of  Bethlehem  night,  and  to 
dine  alone  under  Christmas  candles  is  never  a  cheerful 
business.  The  Proudfit  car  was  to  come  for  me 
soon  after  eight,  and  at  eight  I  stood  waiting  at  the 
window  of  my  little  living  room,  saying  to  myself  that 
if  I  were  to  drop  from  the  air  to  a  deserted  country 


126  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

road,  I  should  be  certain  that  it  was  Christmas  Eve. 
You  can  tell  Christmas  Eve  anywhere,  like  a  sugar- 
plum, with  your  eyes  shut.  It  is  not  the  lighted 
houses,  or  the  close-curtained  windows  behind  which 
Christmas  trees  are  fruiting;  nor  yet,  in  Friendship, 
will  it  be  the  .post-office  store  or  the  home  bakery 
windows,  gay  with  Christmas  trappings.  But  there 
is  in  the  world  a  subdued  note  of  joyful  preparation, 
as  if  some  spirit  whom  one  never  may  see  face  to  face 
had  on  this  night  a  gift  of  perceptible  life.  And  in 
spite  of  my  loneliness,  my  heart  upleaped  to  the  note 
of  a  distant  sleigh-bell  jingling  an  air  of  "Home, 
going  Home,  Christmas  Eve  and  going  Home." 

Then,  when  the  big  Proudfit  cai  came  flashing  to 
my  door,  I  had  a  sweet  surprise.  For  from  it, 
through  the  snowy  dark,  came  running  a  little  fairy 
thing,  and  Viola  Ordway  danced  to  my  door  with 
her  mother,  muffled  in  furs. 

"We've  been  close  in  the  house  all  day,"  Mrs. 
Ordway  cried,  "  and  now  we've  run  away  to  get  you. 
Come!" 

As  for  me,  I  took  Viola  in  my  arms  and  lifted  her  to 
my  hall  table  and  caught  off  her  cloak  and  hood.  I 
can  never  resist  doing  this  to  a  child.  I  love  to  see 
the  little  warm,  plump  body  in  its  fine  white  linen 
emerge  rose-wise,  from  the  calyx  cloak;  and  I  love 
that  shy  first  gesture,  whatever  it  may  be,  of  a  child  so 
emerging.  The  turning  about,  the  freeing  of  soft 


"NOT  AS  THE  WORLD  GIVETH"  127 

hair  from  the  neck,  the  smoothing  down  of  the  frock, 
the  half-abashed  upward  look.  Viola  did  more. 
She  laid  one  hand  on  my  cheek  and  held  it  so,  looking 
at  me  quite  gravely,  as  if  that  were  some  secret  sign 
of  brotherhood  in  the  unknown,  which  she  remem- 
bered and  I,  alas !  had  forgotten.  But  I  perfectly 
remembered  how  to  kiss  her.  If  only,  I  thought,  all 
the  empty  arms  could  know  a  Viola.  If  only  all  the 
empty  arms,  up  and  down  the  world,  could  know  a 
Viola  even  just  at  Christmas  time.  If  only  — 

Over  the  top  of  Viola's  head  I  looked  across  at  Nita 
Ordway,  and  a  sudden  joyous  purpose  lighted  all  the 
air  about  me  —  as  a  joyous  purpose  will.  Oh,  if 
only  —  And  then  I  heard  myself  pouring  out  a 
marvellous  jumble  of  sound  and  senselessness. 

"Nita  !"  I  cried,  "you  are  not  a  Friendship  Village 
mother !  You  are  not  afraid.  Viola  is  not  going  to 
the  new  minister's  Christmas  tree.  Oh,  don't  you 
see  ?  It's  still  early  —  surely  we  have  time  !  The 
grandma  ladies  must  see  Viola!" 

I  remember  how  Nita  Ordway  laughed,  and  her 
answer  made  me  love  her  the  more  —  as  is  the  way 
of  some  answers. 

"I  don't  catch  it  —  I  don't,"  she  said,  "but  it 
sounds  delicious.  All  courage,  and  old  ladies,  and 
ample  time  for  everything!  If  I  said,  'Of  course/ 
would  that  do  ?" 

Already  I  was  tying  Viola's  hood,   and   next  to 


128  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

taking  off  a  child's  hood  I  love  putting  one  on  — 
surely  every  one  will  have  noticed  how  their  mouths 
bud  up  for  kissing.  While  we  sped  along  the  Plank 
Road  toward  Calliope's  cottage,  I  poured  out  the 
story  of  who  were  at  her  house  that  night,  and  why, 
and  all  that  had  befallen.  In  a  moment  the  great 
car,  devouring  its  own  path  of  light,  set  us  down  at 
Calliope's  gate,  and  Calliope  herself,  trim  in  her 
gray  henrietta,  her  wrinkled  face  flushed  and  shining, 
came  at  our  summons.  And  I  pushed  Viola  in  before 
us  —  little  fairy  thing  in  a  fluff  of  white  wraps  and 
white  furs. 

"Look,  Calliope!"  I  cried. 

Calliope  looked  down  at  her,  and  I  think  she  can 
hardly  have  seen  Mrs.  Ordway  and  me  at  all.  She 
smote  her  hands  softly  together. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  if  it  isn't !  Oh  —  a  child  for  Star 
o'  Bethlehem  night,  after  all !" 

She  dropped  to  her  knees  before  Viola,  touching 
the  little  girl's  hand  almost  shyly.  There  was  in 
Calliope's  face  when  she  looked  at  any  child  a  kind 
of  nakedness  of  the  woman's  soul;  and  she,  who  was 
so  deft,  was  curiously  awkward  in  such  a  presence. 

"They're  out  there  in  the  dinin'  room,"  she  whis- 
pered, "settin'  round  the  cook  stove.  I  saw  they 
felt  some  better  out  there.  Le's  us  leave  her  go  out 
alone  by  herself,  just  the  way  she  is." 

And  that  was  what  we  did.     We  said  something 


-NOT  AS  THE  WORLD  GIVETH"  129 

to  Viola  softly  about  "the  poor  grandma  ladies,  with 
no  little  girl  to  love,"  and  then  Calliope  opened  the 
door  and  let  her  through. 

We  peeped  for  a  moment  at  the  lamp-lit  crack. 
The  dining  room  was  warm  and  bright,  its  table 
covered  with  red  cotton  and  set  with  tea-cups,  shelves 
of  plants  blooming  across  the  windows,  cedar  green  on 
the  walls.  The  odour  of  pop-corn  was  in  the  air,  and 
above  an  open  griddle  hole  apples  bobbed  on  strings 
tied  to  the  stove-pipe  wing.  And  there  about  the 
cooking  range,  with  its  cheery  opened  hearth,  Cal- 
liope's Christmas  guests  were  gathered. 

They  were  exquisitely  neat  and  trim,  in  black  and 
brown  cloth  dresses,  with  a  brooch,  or  a  white  apron, 
or  a  geranium  from  a  window  plant  worn  for  festival. 
I  recognized  Grandma  Holly,  with  her  soft  white 
hair,  and  I  thought  I  could  tell  which  were  Mis' 
Ailing  and  Mis'  Burney  and  Mis'  Norris.  And  the 
faces  of  them  all,  the  gentle,  the  grief-marked,  even 
the  querulous,  were  grown  kindly  with  the  knowledge 
that  somebody  had  cared  about  their  Christmas. 

The  child  went  toward  them  as  simply  as  if  they 
had  been  friends.  They  looked  at  her  with  some 
murmuring  of  surprise,  and  at  one  another  ques- 
tioningly.  Viola  went  straight  to  the  knee  of 
Grandma  Holly,  who  was  nearest. 

"'At  lady  tied  my  hood  too  tight,"  she  referred 
unflatteringly  to  me,  "p'eas  do  it  off." 


130  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

Grandma  Holly  looked  down  over  her  spectacles, 
and  up  at  the  other  grandma  ladies,  and  back  to 
Viola.  The  others  gathered  nearer,  hitching  forward 
rocking-chairs,  rising  to  peer  over  shoulders  — 
breathlessly,  with  a  manner  of  fearing  to  touch  her. 
But  because  of  the  little  uplifted  face,  waiting, 
Grandma  Holly  must  needs  untie  the  white  hood 
and  reveal  all  the  shining  of  the  child's  hair. 

"Nen  do  my  toat  off,"  Viola  gravely  directed. 

At  that  Grandma  Holly  crooned  some  single  in- 
distinguishable syllable  in  her  throat,  and  then  off 
came  the  cloak.  The  little  warm,  plump  body  in  its 
fine  linen  emerged,  rose-wise,  and  Viola  smoothed 
down  her  frock,  and  freed  her  hair  from  her  neck, 
and  glanced  up  shyly.  By  the  stir  and  flutter  among 
them  I  understood  that  they  were  feeling  just  as  I 
feel  when  a  little  hood  and  cloak  come  off. 

Viola  stood  still  for  a  minute. 

"I  like  be  made  some  'tention  to,"  she  suggested 
gently. 

Ah  —  and  they  understood.  How  they  under- 
stood !  Grandma  Holly  swept  the  little  girl  in  her 
arms,  and  I  know  how  the  others  closed  about  them 
with  smiles  and  vague  unimportant  words.  Viola 
sat  quietly  and  happily,  like  a  little  come-a-purpose 
spirit  to  let  them  pretend.  And  it  was  with  them  all 
as  if  something  long  pent  up  went  free. 

Calliope  left  the  door  and  turned  toward  us. 


"NOT  AS  THE  WORLD  GIVETH"  131 

"Seems  like  my  throat  couldn't  stand  it,"  she  said, 
.  .  .  and  it  seemed  to  me,  as  we  three  sat  together 
in  the  dim  little  parlor,  that  Nita  Ordway  must 
cherish  Viola  for  us  all  —  for  the  grandma  ladies  and 
Calliope  and  me. 

Half  an  hour  later  we  three  went  out  to  the  dining 
room.  Viola  ran  to  her  mother  when  she  entered. 
Nita  took  her  in  her  arms  and  sat  beside  the  stove, 
her  cloak  slipping  from  her  shoulders,  the  soft  peach 
tints  of  her  gown  shot  through  with  shining  lines  and 
the  light  caught  in  her  collar  of  gems.  "I  did  want 
to  get  a-hold  o'  somethin'  beautiful  for  them  old 
ladies  to  see,"  Calliope  had  said. 

"Oh,"   said   Grandma   Holly,   and   she   laid   her 
brown  hand  on  Viola's   hand,  "ain't   she  dear  an 
little  an   young?" 

"I  wish't  she'd  talk  some,"  begged  old  Mis' 
Norris. 

"Ain't  she  good,  though,  the  little  thing?"  Mis' 
Ailing  said.  "Look  at  how  still  she  sets.  Not 
wigglin'  'round  same  as  some.  It  was  just  that  way 
with  Sam  when  he  was  small  —  he'd  set  by  the  hour 
an'  leave  me  hold  him  — " 

A  little  bent  creature,  whose  name  I  never  learned, 
sat  patting  Viola's  skirt. 

"Seems  like  I'd  gone  back  years,"  we  heard  her 
say. 

Grandma  Holly  held  up  one  half-closed  hand. 


132  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

"Like  that,"  she  told  them,  "my  Amy's  feet  was 
so  little  I  could  hold  'em  like  that,  an'  I  see  hers  is 
the  same  way.  She's  wonderful  like  Amy  was,  her 
age." 

I  cannot  recall  half  the  sweet,  trivial  things  that 
they  said.  But  I  remember  how  they  told  us  stories 
of  their  own  babies,  and  we  laughed  with  them  over 
treasured  sayings  of  long-ago  lips,  or  grieved  with 
them  over  silences,  or  rejoiced  at  glad  things  that  had 
been.  Regardless  of  the  Proudfit  party,  we  let  them 
talk  as  they  would,  and  remember.  Then  of  her 
own  accord  Nita  Ordway  hummed  some  haunting 
air,  and  sang  one  of  the  songs  that  we  all  loved  —  the 
grandma  ladies  and  Calliope  and  I.  It  was  a  sleepy 
song,  whose  words  I  have  forgotten,  but  it  was  in  a 
kind  of  universal  tongue  which  I  think  that  no  one 
can  possibly  mistake.  And  out  of  the  lullaby  came 
all  the  little  spirits,  freed  in  babyhood  or  "man- 
grown,"  and  stood  at  the  knees  of  the  grandma  ladies, 
so  that  I  was  afraid  that  they  could  not  bear  it. 

When  the  song  was  done,  Viola  suddenly  sat  up 
very  straight. 

"I  got  a  litty  box,"  she  announced,  "an'  I  had  a 
parasol.  An'  once  a  boy  div  me  a  new  nail.  An' 
once  I  didn'  feel  berry  well,  but  now  I  am.  An' 


once  — " 


Their  laughter  was  like  a  caress.     Before  it  was 
done,  we  heard  a  stamping  without,  and  there  was 


•NOT   AS   THE   WORLD   GIVETH"  133 

Jimmy  Sturgis,  with  a  spray  of  holly  in  his  old  felt  hat 
and  the  closed  'bus  at  the  door. 

We  helped  Calliope  to  get  their  wraps  and  to  fill 
the  'bus  with  hot  stones  from  the  oven  and  with  many 
quilts,  and  we  made  ready  a  basket  of  pop-corn  and 
apples  and  of  the  cedar  hung  around  the  little  room. 
They  stood  about  us  to  say  good-by,  or  to  tell  us  some 
last  bit  of  the  news  of  their  long-past  youth  —  dear, 
wrinkled  faces  framed  in  broad  lines  of  bonnet  or 
hood,  and  smiling,  every  one. 

"This  gray  shawl  I  got  on  me  is  the  very  one  I  used 
to  wrap  Amy  in  to  carry  her  through  the  cold  hall," 
said  Grandma  Holly.  "  My  land-a-livin' !  seems's 
if  I'd  been  with  her  to-night,  over  again  !" 

Their  way  of  thanks  lay  among  stumbling  words 
and  vague  repetitions,  but  there  was  a  kind  of  glory 
in  their  grateful  faces,  and  one  always  remembers 
that. 

"Merry  Prismas,  gramma  ladies!"  Viola  cried 
shrilly  at  the  'bus  door,  and  within  they  laughed  like 
mothers  as  they  answered.  And  Jimmy  Sturgis 
cracked  his  whip,  and  the  sleigh-bells  jingled. 

Nita  Ordway  and  Viola  and  I  stood  for  a  moment 
with  Calliope  at  her  gate. 

"Come!"  we  begged  her,  "now  go  with  us.  We 
are  all  late  together.  There  is  no  reason  why  you 
should  not  op  with  us  to  the  Christmas  party." 

But  Cahiope  shook  her  head. 


134  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

"I'm  ever  so  much  obliged  to  you,"  she  said,  "but 
oh,  I  couldn't.  I've  hed  too  rilly  a  Christmas  to 
come  down  to  a  party  anywheres." 

When  Nita  and  Viola  and  I  reached  Proudfit 
House,  the  guests  were  all  assembled,  but  we  knew 
that  Mrs.  Proudfit  and  Miss  Clementina  would  be 
the  first  to  forgive  us  when  they  understood. 

The  big  colonial  home  was  bright  with  scarlet- 
shaded  candles  and  holly-hung  walls;  there  was 
mistletoe  on  the  sconces,  and  in  the  great  hall  there 
were  tuneful  strings.  On  the  landing  of  the  stairs 
stood  Mrs.  Proudfit  and  Miss  Clementina,  charm- 
ingly pretty  in  their  delicate  frocks,  and  wholly  gay 
and  gracious.  ("They  seem  lively  like  in  pictures 
where  folks  don't  make  a  loud  sound  a-talkin',"  said 
Friendship.  "I  s'pose  it's  somethin'  you  learn  in  the 
City.")  And  Friendship  wore  its  loyalty  like  a 
mantle.  Twelve  years  had  passed,  and  yet  one  and 
another  said  under  breath  and  sighed,  "If  only  Miss 
Linda  could  'a'  been  here,  too." 

All  Friendship  Village  was  there,  save  /  bel  Halsey, 
who  was  at  the  Good  Shepherd's  Home  Christmas 
tree  in  the  City,  and,  perhaps  one  would  say,  Delia 
More,  who  had  begged  to  be  allowed  to  help  in  the 
kitchen  "  an*  be  there  that  way."  Even  Peleg  Bemus 
was  in  his  place  in  the  orchestra,  sitting  "Ti*th  closed 
eyes,  playing  his  flute,  and  keeping  audible  time  with 


"NOT  AS  THE   WORLD  GIVETH"  135 

his  wooden  leg,  —  quite  as  he  did  when  he  played 
his  flute  at  night,  on  Friendship  streets.  And  there 
was  Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes,  in  the  tobacco-brown  net, 
with  butterflies  stitched  down  the  skirt  and  the  Lady 
Washington  geranium  in  her  hair  —  and  forever  near 
her  went  little  Miss  Liddy  Ember  with  an  almost 
passionate  creative  pride  in  the  gown  of  her  hand, 
so  that  she  would  murmur  her  patron  an  occasional 
warning:  "Mis'  Sykes,  throw  back  your  shoulders, 
you  hev  to,  to  bring  out  the  real  set  o'  the  basque;" 
or,  "  Don't  forget  you  want  to  give  a  little  hitch  to  the 
back  when  you  stand  up,  Mis'  Sykes."  And  to  one 
and  another  Liddy  said  proudly,  "I  declare  if  I 
didn't  get  that  skirt  with  the  butterflies  just  like  a 
magazine  cover."  And  there,  too,  was  Ellen  Ember, 
wearing  a  white  book  muslin  and  a  rosy  "nubia"  that 
had  been  her  mother's;  and  Ellen's  face  was  uplifted, 
and  of  pale  distinction  under  the  bronze  glory  of  her 
hair,  but  all  that  evening  she  smiled  and  sang  and 
wondered,  in  utter  absence  of  the  spirit.  ("Oh," 
poor  Miss  Liddy  said,  "I  do  so  want  Ellen  to  come 
herself  before  supper.  She  won't  remember  a  thing 
she  eats,  an'  she  don't  have  much  that's  tasty  an' 
good.  It'll  be  just  like  she  missed  the  whole  thing, 
in  spite  of  all  the  chore  o'  comin'.")  And  there  were 
Mis'  Doctor  Helman  in  her  new  wine  silk;  Mis' 
Banker  Mason  in  the  black-and-white  foulard  de- 
signed to  grace  a  festival  or  to  respect  a  tomb;  Mis1 


136  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

Sturgis,  in  a  put-away  dress  that  was  a  surprise  to 
everyone;  Mis'  Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss,  and 
Eppleby,  and  the  "Other"  Holcombs;  Abigail  Ar- 
nold, the  Gekerjecks,  Mis'  Toplady  and  Timothy,  even 
Mis'  Mayor  Uppers  —  no  one  was  forgotten.  And 
—  save  poor  Ellen  —  every  one  was  aglow  with  the 
sweet  satisfaction  of  having  sent  abroad  a  brave  array 
of  pretty  things,  with  stitches  of  rose  and  blue  on 
flowered  fabrics,  with  the  flutter  of  ribbons,  and  the 
breath  of  sachets,  and  with  many  a  gift  of  substance 
to  those  less  generously  endowed.  To  them  all  the 
delight  of  the  season  was  in  the  gifts  of  their  hands 
and  in  the  night's  merry-making,  and  in  the  joy  of 
keeping  holiday.  Here,  as  Calliope  had  said,  Christ- 
mas, begun  in  a  stocking,  was  ending  in  a  candle. 

And  yet  it  was  Star  of  Bethlehem  night,  the  night 
of  Him  who  "  didn't  mention  givin'  things  at  all." 


X 

LONESOME.  —  I 

CALLIOPE  and  I  were  talking  over  the  Proudfit 
party,  as  I  had  grown  to  like  to  talk  over  most  things 
with  her,  when  I  said  something  of  two  of  the  guests 
whom  I  did  not  remember  before  to  have  seen :  a  little 
man  of  shy  gravity  and  an  extremely  pretty  girl  who, 
if  she  looked  at  any  one  but  him,  did  so  quite  un- 
detected. 

"That's  Eb  Goodnight,"  Calliope  replied,  "him 
of  the  new-born  spine.  Wasn't  it  like  the  Proudfits 
to  ask  them  ?" 

And,  at  my  question : 

"Some  folks,"  Calliope  said,  "has  got  spines  and 
some  folks  hasn't.  But  what  I  say  is,  nobody  can 
tell  which  is  which.  Because  now  and  then  the  soft- 
spine'  kind  just  hardens  up  all  in  a  minute  same  as 
steel.  So  when  I  meet  a  stranger  that  sort  o'  sops 
along  through  life,  limp  and  floppy,  I  never  judge 
him.  I  just  say,  'You  look  some  like  a  loose  shutter, 
but  mebbe  you  can  fair  bang  the  house  down,  if  you 

137 


138  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

rilly  get  to  blowin'.'  It  was  that  way  with  Eb  Good- 
night. 

"  I  donno  how  it  is  other  places.  But  I've  noticed 
with  us  here  in  Friendship  —  an*  I've  grown  to  the 
town  from  short  dresses  to  bein'-careful-what-I-eat  — 
I've  often  noticed't  when  folks  seems  not  to  have  any 
backbone  to  speak  of,  or  even  when  they  go  'round 
sort  o'  crazy  —  they's  usually  some  other  reason,  like 
enough.  Sensitive  or  sick  or  lonesome,  or  like  that. 
It  was  so  with  Eb  —  an'  it  was  so  with  Elspie. 
Elspie,  though,  was  interestin'  on  account  o'  bein' 
not  only  a  little  crazy,  but  rill  pretty  besides.  But 
Eb,  he  was  the  kind  that  a  sign-board  is  more  inter- 
estin' than.  An'  yet  - 

With  that  she  paused,  looking  down  some  way  of 
her  own  thought.  I  knew  Calliope's  "an*  yet."  It 
splendidly  conceded  the  entire  converse  of  her  argu- 
ment. 

"Eb  come  here  to  Friendship,"  she  went  on,  "less 
public  than  Elspie  did.  Elspie  come  official,  as  an 
inmate  o'  the  county  house.  Eb,  he  sort  o'  crep'  in 
town,  like  he  crep'  everywhere  else.  He  introduced 
himself  to  me  through  sellin'  needles.  He  walked  in 
on  me  an'  a  two-weeks  ironin'  one  mornin'  with, 
'Lemme  present  myself  as  Ebenezer  Goodnight, 
sewin'  needles,  knittin'  needles,  crochet  hooks  an* 
shuttles  an*  anything  o'  that,'  an'  down  he  set  an' 
never  opened  his  mouth  about  his  needles  again. 


LONESOME.  —  I  139 

Eb  was  real  delicate,  for  an  agent.  He  just  talked 
all  the  time  about  Friendship  an'  himself.  'The 
whol'  blame*  town's  kin/  s'e;  'I  never  see  such  a 
place.  .Everybody's  kin,  only  just  me.  Air  you,'  he 
ask'  me  wistful,  *  cousin'  of  'em  all,  too  ?' 

"'Mis'  Sprague  that's  dead  was  connected  up  with 
me  by  marriage  an'  Mis'  Sykes  is  my  mother's  secunt 
cousin,'  I  owned  up.' 

"'That's  it  again,'  s'e,  sighin'.  'I'm  the  odd 
number,  dum  it,'  he  says  sorrowful. 

"Well,  an'  he  hed  sort  of  an  odd-number  way 
about  him,  too.  He  went  along  the  street  like  he 
didn't  belong.  I  donno  if  you  know  what  I  mean, 
but  he  was  always  takih'  in  the  tops  o'  buildin's 
an'  lookin'  at  the  roads  an'  behavin'  like  he  noticed  — 
the  way  you  don't  when  you  live  in  a  town.  Yes, 
Ebenezer  Goodnight  went  around  like  he  see  things 
for  the  first  time.  An'  somehow  he  never  could  join 
in.  When  he  walked  up  to  a  flock  o'  men,  he  stood 
side  of  'em,  an'  not  with  'em.  An'  he  shook  hands 
sort  o'  loose  an'  temporary  like  he  meant  somethin' 
else.  An'  he  just  couldn't  bear  not  to  agree  with  you. 
If  he  let  out't  the  sky  was  blue  an'  you  said,  No,  pink, 
he'd  work  around  till  he'd  dyed  bis  sky  pink,  too. 
That  man  would  agree  to  things  he  never  heard  of. 
Let  Peleg  Bemus  be  tellin'  one  o'  his  eastern  janitor 
adventures,  an'  Eb'd  set  an'agree  with  him,  past  nod- 
din'  an'  up  to  words,  all  about  elevators  an'  Ferris 


HO  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

boats  an'  Eyetalians  an'  things  he'd  never  laid  look  to. 
He  seemed  to  hev  a  spine  made  mostly  o'  molasses. 
An'  sometimes  I  think  your  spine's  your  soul. 

"  Eb  hed  been  lonelyin'  'round  the  village  a  month 
or  so  when  Sum  Merriman,  that  run  the  big  rival 
business  to  the  post-office  store,  an'  was  fire  chief 
besides,  took  him  an'  his  peddler's  pack  into  the  dry 
goods  end  —  an'  Eb  was  tickled.  He  went  down 
first  mornin'  in  his  best  clo'es,  a-wearin'  both  collar 
an'  cuffs.  But  when  somebody  remarked  on  the 
clo'es,  he  didn't  hev  backbone  enough  to  keep  on 
wearin'  'em  —  he  slimpsed  right  back  to  his  peddler 
duds  an'  done  his  best  to  please.  An'  he  did  please 
—  he  made  a  rill  first-rate  merchant  clear  up  till 
June  o'  the  year.  An'  then  Sum  Merriman,  his 
employer,  he  went  to  work  an'  died. 

"Sum  died  a  Tuesday,  an',  bein'  it  never  rains 
but  it  pours,  an'  piles  peelin's  on  ashes,  or  what- 
ever it  is  they  say,  it  was  the  Tuesday  that  the 
poorhouse  burnt  down  —  just  like  it  knew  the  fire 
chief  was  gone.  The  poorhouse  use'  to  be  across  the 
track,  beyond  the  cemetery  an'  quite  near  my  house. 
An'  the  night  it  burnt  I  was  settin'  on  the  side  stoop 
without  anything  over  my  head,  just  smellin'  in  the 
air,  when  I  see  a  little  pinky  look  on  the  sky  beyond 
the  track.  It  wasn't  moon-time,  an'  they  wa'n't 
nothin'  to  bonfire  that  time  o'  year,  an'  I  set  still,  pre- 
tendin'  it  was  rose-bushes  makin'  a  ladder  an' 


LONESOME.  —  I  141 

buildin'  a  way  of  escape  by  night.  It  was  such  a 
nice  evenin'  you  couldn't  imagine  anything  rilly 
happenin'  bad.  But  all  at  once  I  heard  the  fire- 
engine  bell  potindin'  away  like  all  possessed  —  an' 
then  runnin'  feet,  like  when  they's  an  accident.  I 
got  to  the  gate  just  as  somebody  come  rushin'  past, 
an'  I  piped  up  what  was  the  matter.  'Poorhouse's 
afire,' s'e.  'Poorhouse,'  s'l.  'My  land!'  An' I  out 
the  gate  an'  run  alongside  of  him,  an'  he  sort  o' 
slowed  down  for  me,  courteous. 

"Then  I  noticed  it  was  Eb  Goodnight —  lonelier'n 
ever  now  that  his  employer  bed  died  that  day.  I'd 
never  see  Eb  hustle  that  much  before,  an'  the  thought 
went  through  my  head,  kind  o'  wonderin',  that  he 
was  runnin'  as  if  the  fire  was  a  real  relation  o'his  an' 
he  was  sent  for.  'Know  anything  else  about  it?'  I 
ask'  him,  keepin'  up.  'Not  much,'  s'e,  'but  I  guess 
it's  got  such  a  head-start  the  whol'  thing'll  go  like  a 
shell.'  An'  when  we  got  to  the  top  o'  the  bank  on 
the  other  side  o'  the  track,  we  see  it  was  that  way  — 
the  poorhouse'd  got  such  a  head-start  burnin'  that 
nothin'  could  save  it,  though  Timothy  Toplady, 
that  was  town  marshal  an'  chairman  o'  the  county 
board,  an'  Silas  Sykes  an'  Eppleby  Holcomb,  that 
was  managers  o'  the  poorhouse,  an'  some  more, 
went  puffin'  past  us,  yellin',  '  Put  it  out  —  run  fer 
water  —  why  don't  you  do  suthin'  ?'  —  an'  like  that, 
most  beside  theirselves. 


142  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"'Them  poor  critturs,'  says  I,  'oh,  my,  them  poor 
critturs  in  the  home'  —  for  there  must  V  ben  twenty 
o'  the  county  charges  all  quartered  in  the  buildin'. 
An'  when  we  come  to  the  foot  o'  the  poorhouse  hill, 
land,  land,  I  never  see  such  Bedlam. 

"The  fire  had  started  so  soon  after  dusk  that  the 
inmates  was  all  up  yet.  An*  they  was  half  of  'em 
huddled  in  a  bunch  by  the  side-yard  stile  an'  half  of 
'em  runnin'  'round  wild  as  anything.  The  whol' 
place  looked  like  when  you  hev  a  bad  dream.  It 
made  me  weak  in  my  knees,  an'  I  was  winded  any- 
way with  runnin',  an'  I  stopped  an'  leant  up  against 
a  tree,  an'  Eb,  he  stopped  too,  takin'  bearin's.  An' 
there  I  was,  plump  against  Elspie,  standin'  holdin' 
her  arms  'round  the  tree  trunk  an'  shiverin'  some. 

"'Elspie,'  s'l,  'why,  you  poor  child.' 

"'No  need  to  rub  that  in,'  s'she,  tart.  It's  the  one 
word  the  county  charges  gets  sensitive  about  —  an' 
Eb,  he  seemed  to  sense  that,  an'  he  ask'  her,  hasty, 
how  the  fire  started.  He  called  her  'Miss,'  too,  an'  I 
judged  that  'Miss'  was  one  o'  them  poultice  words 
to  her. 

" '  I  donno,'  s'she, '  but  don't  it  look  cheerful  ?  The 
yard's  all  lit  up  nice,  like  fer  comp'ny,'  she  says,  rill 
pleased. 

"It  sort  o'  uncovered  my  nerves  to  hear  her  so 
unconcerned.  I  never  hed  understood  her  —  none 
of  us  hed.  She  was  from  outside  the  state,  but 


LONESOME.  —  I  143 

her  uncle,  Job  Ore,  was  on  our  county  board  an'  he 
got  her  into  our  poorhouse  —  like  you  can  when 
you're  in  politics.  Then  he  up  an'  died  an'  went 
home  to  be  buried,  an'  there  she  was  on  our  hands. 
She  wa'n't  rill  crazy  —  we  understood't  she  hadn't 
ben  crazy  at  all  up  to  the  time  her  mother  died. 
Then  she  hadn't  no  one  to  go  to  an'  she  got  queer, 
an'  the  poorhouse  uncle  stepped  in;  an'  when  he 
died,  he  died  in  debt,  so  his  death  wa'n't  no  use  to 
her.  She  was  thirty  odd,  but  awful  little  an'  slim 
an'  scairt-lookin',  an'  quite  pretty,  I  allus  thought; 
an'  I  never  see  a  thing  wrong  with  her  till  she  was 
so  unconcerned  about  the  fire. 

"Elspie,'  s'l,  stern,  'ain't  you  no  feelin'/  s'l, 
'for  the  loss  o'  the  only  home  you've  got  to  your 
back?' 

"Oh,  I  donno,'  s'she,  an'  I  could  see  her  smilin' 
in  that  bright  light,  'oh,  I  donno.  It'll  be  some  place 
to  come  to,  afterwards.  When  I  go  out  walkin',' 
s'she,  'I  ain't  no  place  to  head  for.  I  sort  o'  circle 
'round  an'  come  back.  I  ain't  even  a  grave  to  visit,' 
s'she,  '  an'  it'll  be  kind  o'  cosey  to  come  up  here  on  the 
hill  an'  set  down  by  the  ashes  —  like  they  belonged.9 

"I  know  I  heard  Eb  Goodnight  laugh,  kind  o' 
cracked  an'  enjoyable,  an'  I  took  some  shame  to  him 
for  makin'  fun  o'  the  poor  girl. 

"She's  goin'  clear  out  o'  her  head,'  thinks  I, 
'an'  you'd  better  get  her  home  with  you,  short  off.' 


144  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

So  I  put  my  arm  around  her,  persuadish,  an'  I  says: 
'Elspie,'  I  says,  'you  come  on  to  my  house  now  for  a 
spell/  I  says.  But  Eb,  he  steps  in,  prompter' n  I 
ever  knew  him  —  I'd  never  heard  him  do  a  thing 
decisive  an*  sudden  excep'  sneeze,  an'  them  he  always 
done  his  best  to  swallow.  'I'll  take  her  to  your 
house,'  he  says  to  me;  'you  go  on  up  there  to  them 
women.  I  won't  be  no  use  up  there,'  he  says. 
An'  that  was  reasonable  enough,  on  account  o'  Eb 
not  bein'  the  decisive  kind,  for  fires  an'  such. 

"So  Eb  he  went  off,  takin'  Elspie  to  my  house,  an' 
I  went  on  up  the  hill,  where  Timothy  Toplady  and 
Silas  Sykes  an'  Eppleby  was  rushin'  round,  wild  an' 
sudden,  herdin'  the  inmates  here  an'  there,  vague  an' 
energetic.  I  didn't  do  much  better,  an'  I  done 
worse  too,  because  I  burned  my  left  wrist,  long  an' 
deep.  When  I  got  home  with  it,  Eb  was  settin'  on 
the  front  stoop  with  Elspie,  an'  when  he  heard  about 
the  wrist,  he  come  in  an'  done  the  lightin'  up.  An' 
Elspie,  she  fair  su'prised  me. 

"'Where  do  you  keep  your  rags  ?'   s'she,  brisk. 

"'In  that  flour  chest  I  don't  use,'  I  says,  'in  the 
shed.' 

"  My  land  !  she  was  back  in  a  minute  with  a  soft 
piece  o'  linen  an'  the  black  oil  off  the  clock  shelf  that 
I  hadn't  told  her  where  it  was,  an'  she  bound  up  my 
wrist  like  she'd  created  that  burn  an'  understood  it 
up  an'  down. 


LONESOME.  —  I  145 

"Now  you  get  into  the  bed/  she  says,  'without 
workin'  the  rag  off.  I'm  all  right,'  s'she.  'I  can 
lock  up.  I  like  hevin'  it  to  do,'  she  told  me. 

"But  Eb  puts  in,  kind  o'  eager:  — 
"Lemme  lock  up  the  shed  —  it's  dark  as  a  hat 
out  there  an'  you  might  sprain  over  your  ankle,'  he 
says  awkward.  An'  so  he  done  the  lockin'  up,  an' 
it  come  over  me  he  liked  hevin'  that  little  householdy 
thing  to  do.  An'  then  he  went  off  home  —  that  is,  to 
where  he  stopped  an'  hated  it  so. 

"Well,  the  poorhouse  burnt  clear  to  the  ground, 
an'  the  inmates  hed  to  be  quartered  'round  in  Friend- 
ship anyhow  that  night,  an'  nex'  day  I  never  see 
Friendship  so  upset.  I  never  see  the  village  roust 
itself  so  sudden,  either.  Timothy  an'  the  managers 
was  up  an'  doin'  before  breakfast  next  mornin',  an' 
no  wonder.  Timothy  Toplady,  he  had  three  old 
women  to  his  farm.  Silas  Sykes,  he'd  took  in  Foolish 
Henzie  an'  another  old  man  for  his.  An'  Eppleby 
Holcomb,  in  his  frenzy  he'd  took  in  five,  an'  Mame 
was  near  a  lunatic  with  havin'  'em  to  do  for.  An'  all 
three  men  bein'  at  the  head  o'  the  burned  buildin', 
they  danced  'round  lively  makin'  provision,  an'  they 
sent  telegrams,  wild  an'  reckless,  without  countin' 
the  words.  An'  before  noon  it  was  settled't  the  poor- 
house  in  Alice  County,  nearest  us,  should  take  in  the 
inmates  temporary.  We  was  eatin'  dinner  when 
Timothy  an'  Silas  come  in  to  tell  Elspie.  I  wished 

L 


I46  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

Eppleby  had  come  to  tell  her.  Eppleby  does  every- 
thing like  he  was  company,  an'  not  like  he  owned  it. 

"Eb  was  hevin'  dinner  with  us  too.  He'd  been 
scallopin'  in  an'  out  o'  the  house  all  the  forenoon,  an* 
I'd  ask'  him  to  set  down  an'  hev  a  bite.  But  when  he 
done  even  that,  he  done  it  kind  of  alien.  Peleg 
Bemus,  playin'  his  flute  walkin'  along  the  streets 
nights,  like  he  does,  seems  more  a  rill  citizen  than 
Eb  use*  to,  eatin'  his  dinner.  Elspie,  she'd  got  the 
whol'  dinner  —  she  was  a  rill  good  cook,  an'  that 
su'prised  me  as  much  as  her  dressin'  my  wrist  the 
night  before.  She'd  pampered  me  shameful  all  that 
mornin'  too,  an'  I'd  let  her  —  when  you've  lived 
alone  so  long,  it's  kind  o'  nice  to  hev  a  person  fussin* 
here  an'  there,  an'  Elspie  seemed  to  love  takin'  care 
o'  somebody.  I  declare,  it  seemed  as  if  she  done 
some  things  for  me  just  for  the  sake  o'  doin'  'em  — 
she  was  that  kind.  Timothy  an'  Silas  wouldn't  hev 
any  dinner,  —  it  was  a  boiled  piece,  too,  —  bein'  as 
dinners  o'  their  own  was  gettin'  cold.  But  they  set 
up  against  the  edge  o'  the  room  so's  we  could  be 
eatin'  on. 

"'Elspie,'  says  Timothy,  'yoa  must  be  ready  to  go 
sharp  seven  o'clock  Friday  mornin'.' 

"'  Go  where?'  says  Elspie.  She  hed  on  a  black- 
an'-white  stripe  o'  mine,  an'  her  cheeks  were  some 
pink  from  standin'  over  the  cook  stove,  an'  she  looked 
rill  pretty. 


LONESOME.  —  I  147 

"Timothy,  he  hesitated.     But,  — 

"'To  the  Alice  County  poorhouse,'  says  Silas, 
blunt.  Silas  Sykes  is  a  man  that  always  says 
'bloody*  an'  'devil'  an'  'coffin'  right  out  instead  o' 
'bandaged'  an'  'the  Evil  One,'  an'  'casket.' 

'"Oh  !'  says  Elspie.  'Oh,  .  .  .'  an'  sort  o'  sunk 
down  an'  covered  her  mouth  with  her  wrist  an'  looked 
at  us  over  it. 

'"The  twenty  o'  you'll  take  the  Dick  Dasher,'  says 
Timothy,  then,  'an'  it'll  be  a  nice  train  ride  for  ye/ 
he  says,  some  like  an  undertaker  makin'  small  talk. 
But  he  see  how  Elspie  took  it,  an'  so  he  slid  off  the 
subjec'  an'  turned  to  Eb. 

"Little  too  early  to  know  who's  goin'  to  take  the 
Merriman  store,  ain't  it  ?'  s'he,  cheerful.  Timothy 
ain't  so  everlastin'  cheerful,  either,  but  he  always 
hearties  himself  all  over  when  he  talks,  like  he  was  a 
bell  or  a  whistle  an'  he  hed  it  to  do. 

"Eb,  he  dropped  his  knife  on  the  floor. 

'Yes,  yes,'  he  says  flurried,  'yes,  it  is  — '  like  he 
was  rushin'  to  cover  an'  a  'yes'  to  agree  was  his  best 
protection. 

"Oh,  well,  it  ain't  so  early  either,'  Silas  cuts  in, 
noddin'  crafty. 

"No,  no,'  Eb  agrees  immediate,  'I  donno's  'tis  so 
very  early,  after  all.' 

"I'm  thinkin'  o'  takin'  the  store  over  myself,'  says 
Silas  Sykes,  tippin'  his  head  back  an'  rubbin'  thought- 


148  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

ful  under  his  whiskers.     'It'd  be  a  good  idee  to  buy 
it  in,  an'  no  mistake/ 

"'Yes/  says  Eb,  noddin',  'yes.  Yes,  so't  would 
be/ 

"I  donno's  I'd  do  it,  Silas,  if  I  was  you,'  says 
Timothy,  frownin'  judicial.  'Ain't  you  gettin'  some 
stiff  to  take  up  with  a  new  business  ?'  But  Timothy 
is  one  o'  them  little  pink  men,  an'  you  can't  take  his 
frowns  much  to  heart. 

"'No,'  says  Eb,  shakin'  his  head.  'No.  No,  I 
donno's  I  would  take  it  either,  Mr.  Sykes/ 

"I  was  goin'  to  say  somethin'  about  the  wind 
blowin'  now  east,  now  west,  an'  the  human  spine 
makin'  a  bad  weathercock,  but  I  held  on,  an'  pretty 
soon  Timothy  an'  Silas  went  out. 

"Seven  o'clock  Friday  A.M.,  now!'  says  Silas, 
playful,  over  his  shoulder  to  Elspie.  But  Elspie 
didn't  answer.  She  was  just  sittin'  there,  still  an' 
quiet,  an'  she  didn't  eat  another  thing. 

"That  afternoon  she  slipped  out  o'  the  house 
somewheres.  She  didn't  hev  a  hat  —  what  few 
things  she  did  hev  hed  been  burnt.  She  went  off 
without  any  hat  an'  stayed  most  all  the  afternoon.  I 
didn't  worry,  though,  because  I  thought  I  knew  where 
she'd  gone.  But  I  wouldn't  'a'  asked  her,  —  I'd  as 
soon  slap  anybody  as  quiz  'em,  —  an'  besides  I  knew't 
somebody'd  tell  me  if  I  kep'  still.  Friendship'll 
tell  you  everything  you  want  to  know,  if  you  lay  low 


LONESOME.  —  I  149 

long  enough.  An'  sure  as  the  world,  'bout  five 
o'clock  in  come  Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes,  lookin' 
troubled.  Folks  always  looks  that  way  when  they 
come  to  interfere.  Seems't  she'd  just  walked  past 
the  poorhouse  ruins,  an'  she'd  see  Elspie  settin'  there 
side  of  'em,  all  alone  — 

"' — sin  gin  ?  says  Mis'  Sykes,  impressive,  —  like 
the  evil  was  in  the  music,  — '  sittin'  there  singin',  like 
she  was  all  possessed.  An'  I  come  up  behind  her  an* 
plumped  out  at  her  to  know  what  she  was  a-doin'. 
An'  she  says:  "I'm  makin'  a  call," — just  like  that; 
"I'm  makin'  a  call,"  s'she,  smilin',  an'  not  another 
word  to  be  got  out  of  her.  *  An  '  says  Mis'  Sykes, 
'let  me  tell  you,  I  scud  down  that  hill,  one  goose 
pimple.9 

"Let   her   alone/    says   I,    philosophic.     'Leave 
her  be.' 

"  But  inside  I  ached  like  the  toothache  for  the  poor 
thing  —  for  Elspie.  An'  I  says  to  her,  when  she 
come  home :  — 

"'Elspie,'  I  says,  'why  don't  you  go  out  'round 
some  an'  see  folks  here  in  the  village  ?  The  minister's 
wife'd  be  rill  glad  to  hev  you  come,'  I  says. 

"Oh,  I  hate  to  hev  'em  sit  thinkin'  about  me  in 
behind  their  eyes,'  s'she,  ready. 

"'What?"  says  I,  blank. 

"'It  comes  out  through  their  eyes,'  she  says. 
'They  keep  thinkin':  Poor,  poor,  poor  Elspie.  If 


i5o  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

they  was  somebody  dead't  I  could  go  to  see,'  she 
told  me,  smilin',  'I'd  do  that.  A  grave  can't  poor 
you/  she  told  me,  'an'  everybody  that's  company  to 
you  does.' 

"'Well!'  says  I,  an'  couldn't,  in  logic,  say  no 
more. 

"That  evenin'  Eb  come  in  an'  set  down  on  the  edge 
of  a  chair,  experimental,  like  he  was  testin'  the  cane. 

"'Miss  Cally,'  s'e,  when  Elspie  was  out  o'  the 
room,  'you  goin'  t'  let  her  go  with  them  folks  to  the 
Alice  County  poorhouse  ? ' 

"I  guess  I  dissembulated  some  under  my  eyelids 
—  bein'  I  see  t'  Eb's  mind  was  givin'  itself  little 
lurches. 

"'Well,'  s'l,  'I  don't  see  what  that's  wise  I  can  do 
besides.' 

"He  mulled  that  rill  thorough,  seein'  to  the  back 
o'  one  hand  with  the  other. 

"'Would  you  take  her  to  board  an'  me  pay  for  her 
board  ?'  s'e,  like  he'd  sneezed  the  /-dea  an'  couldn't 
help  it  comin', 

"'Goodness!'  s'l,  neutral. 

"  Eb  sighed,  like  he'd  got  my  refusal  —  Eb  was 
one  o'  the  kind  that  always  thinks,  if  it  clouds  up, 
't  the  sun  is  down  on  'em  personally. 

"'Oh,'  s'l,  bold  an'  swift,  'you  great  big  ridiculous 
man!9 

"An*  I'm  blest  if  he  didn't  agree  to  that. 


LONESOME.  —  I  151 

"'I  know  I'm  ridiculous/  s'he,  noddin',  sad.  'I 
know  I'm  that,  Miss  Cally.' 

"'Well,  I  didn't  mean  it  that  way/  s'l,  reticent  — 
an*  said  no  more,  with  the  exception  of  what  I'd 
rilly  meant. 

"'Why  under  the  canopy/  I  ask'  him,  for  a  hint, 
'don't  you  take  the  Sum  Merriman  store,  an'  run  it, 
an'  live  on  your  feet  ?  I  ain't  any  patience  with  a 
man/  s'l,  'that  lives  on  his  toes.  Stomp  some, 
why  don't  you,  an'  buy  that  store  ?' 

"An'  his  answer  su'prised  me. 

'"I  did  ask  Mis'  Fire  Chief  fer  the  refusal  of  it/  he 
said.  'I  ask'  her  when  I  took  my  flowers  to  Sum, 
to-day  —  they  was  wild  flowers  I'd  picked  myself/ 
he  threw  in,  so's  I  wouldn't  think  spendthrift  of  him. 
'An'  I'm  to  let  her  know  this  week,  for  sure.' 

' '  Glory,  glory,  glory/  s'l,  under  my  breath  — 
like  I'd  seen  a  rill  live  soul,  standin'  far  off  on  a  hill 
somewheres,  drawin'  cuts  to  see  whether  it  should 
come  an'  belong  to  Eb,  or  whether  it  shouldn't. 


XI 

LONESOME. — II 

"All  that  evenin'  Eb  an'  Elspie  an*  I  set  by  the 
cook  stove,  talking  an'  they  seemed  to  be  plenty  to 
talk  about,  an'  the  air  in  the  room  was  easy  to  get 
through  with  what  you  hed  to  say  —  it  was  that  kind 
of  an  evenin'.  Eb  was  pretty  quiet,  though,  excep' 
when  he  piped  up  to  agree.  'Gettin'  little  too  hot 
here,  ain't  it  ?'  I  know  I  said  once;  an'  Eb  see  right 
off  he  was  roasted  an'  he  spried  'round  the  draughts 
like  mad.  An'  a  little  bit  afterwards  I  says,  with 
malice  the  fourth  thought:  'I  can  feel  my  shoulders 
some  chilly/  I  says  —  an'  he  acted  fair  chatterin'- 
toothed  himself,  an'  went  off  headfirst  for  the  wood- 
pile. I  noticed  that,  an'  laughed  to  myself,  kind  o* 
pityin'.  But  Elspie,  she  never  noticed.  An'  when 
it  come  time  to  lock  up,  I  'tended  to  my  wrist  an'  let 
them  two  do  the  lockin'.  They  seemed  to  like  to  — 
I  could  tell  that.  An'  Elspie,  she  let  Eb  out  the  front 
door  herself,  like  they  was  rill  folks. 

"Nex'  day  I  was  gettin'  ready  for  Sum  Merriman's 
152 


LONESOME.  —  II  153 

funeral,  —  it  was  to  be  at  one  o'clock,  — when  Elspie 
come  in  my  room,  sort  o'  shyin'  up  to  me  gentle. 

"Miss  Cally,'  s'he,  'do  you  think  the  mourners'd 
take  it  wrong  if  Fs  to  go  to  the  funeral  ?' 

"'Why,  no,  Elspie,'  I  says,  su' prised;  'only  what 
do  you  want  to  go  for  ?'  I  ask'  her. 

" '  Oh,  I  donno,'  s'she.  '  I'd  like  to  go  an'  I'd  like 
to  ride  to  the  graveyard.  I've  watched  the  funerals 
through  the  poorhouse  fence.  An'  I'd  kind  o'  like 
to  be  one  o'  the  followers,  for  once  —  all  lookin' 
friendly  an'  together  so^  in  a  line.' 

Go  with  me  then,  child,'  I  says.     An'  she  done  so. 

"  Bein'  summer,  the  funeral  flowers  was  perfectly 
beautiful.  They  was  a  rill  hothouse  box  from  the 
Proudfits;  an'  a  anchor  an'  two  crosses  an'  a  red 
geranium  lantern;  an'  a  fruit  piece  made  o'  straw 
flowers  from  the  other  merchants;  an'  seven  pillows, 
good-sized,  an'  with  all  different  wordin',  an'  so  on. 
The  mound  at  the  side  o'  the  grave  was  piled  knee- 
high,  an'  Mis'  Fire  Chief  Merriman,  I  heard,  said  it 
seemed  like  Sum  was  less  dead  than  almost  anybody 
Yd  died  in  Friendship,  bein'  the  grave  kind  o'  spoke 
up,  friendly,  when  you  see  the  flowers.  She  went 
home  rill  cheerful  from  the  funeral  an'  was  able  to 
help  get  the  supper  for  the  out-o'-town  relations,  a 
thing  no  widow  ever  thinks  of,  anyway  till  the  next 
day  —  though  Sum  was  her  second  husband,  so  it 
was  a  little  different  than  most. 


154  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"Well,  a  few  of  us  waited  'round  the  cemetery 
afterwards  to  fix  the  flowers  on  the  top  o'  the  sod,  an* 
Elspie,  she  waited  with  me  —  fussin'  quiet  with  one 
thing  an*  another.  Eb,  he  waited  too,  standin' 
'round.  An*  when  it  come  time  for  us  women  to  lay 
the  set  pieces  on,  I  see  Elspie  an*  Eb  walkin'  off 
toward  the  top  o'  the  cemetery  hill.  It's  a  pretty 
view  from  there,  lookin'  down  the  slope  toward  the 
Old  Part,  where  nobody  remembered  much  who  was 
buried,  an'  it's  a  rill  popular  walk.  I  liked  seein' 
'em  go  'long  together  —  some  way,  lookin'  at  'em, 
Elspie  so  pretty  an'  Eb  so  kind  o'  gentle,  you  could 
'a'  thought  they  was  rill  folks,  her  sane  an*  him  with 
a  spine.  I  slipped  off  an'  left  'em,  the  cemetery 
bein'  so  near  my  house,  an'  Eb  walked  home  with 
her.  '  Poor  things,'  I  thought,  '  if  he  does  go  back  to 
peddlin'  an'  she  has  to  go  to  the  Alice  County  poor- 
house,  I'll  give  'em  this  funeral  afternoon  for  a  bright 
spot,  anyhow.' 

"But  I'd  just  about  decided  that  Elspie  wa'n't  to 
go  to  Alice  County.  I  hadn't  looked  the  /-dee  in  the 
face  an'  thought  about  it,  very  financial.  But  I 
ain't  sure  you  get  your  best  lights  when  you  do  that. 
I'd  just  sort  o'  decided  on  it  out  o'  pure  shame  for 
the  shabby  trick  o'  not  doin'  so.  I  hadn't  said  any- 
thing about  it  to  Timothy  or  Silas  or  any  o'  the  rest, 
because  I  didn't  hev  the  strength  to  go  through  the 
arguin'  agony.  When  the  Dick  Dasher  had  pulled 


LONESOME.  —  II  155 

out  without  her,  final,  I  judged  they'd  be  easier  to 
manage.  An'  that  evenin'  I  told  Elspie  —  just  to 
sort  o'  clamp  myself  to  myself;  an'  I  fair  never  see 
anybody  so  happy  as  she  was.  It  made  me  ashamed 
o'  myself  for  not  doin'  different  everything  I  done. 

"I  was  up  early  that  Friday  mornin',  because  I 
judged't  when  Elspie  wasn't  to  the  train  some  o' 
them  in  charge'd  come  tearin'  to  my  house  to  find  out 
why.  I  hadn't  called  Elspie,  an'  I  s'posed  she  was 
asleep  in  the  other  bedroom.  I  was  washin'  up  my 
breakfast  dishes  quiet,  so's  not  to  disturb  her,  when 
I  heard  somebody  come  on  to  the  front  stoop  like 
they'd  been  sent  for. 

'There,'  thinks  I,  'just  as  I  expected.     It's  one 
o'  the  managers/ 

"But  it  wa'n't  a  manager.  When  I'd  got  to  the 
front  door,  lo  an'  the  hold !  there  standin'  on  the 
steps,  wild  an'  white,  was  the  widow  o'  the  day 
before's  funeral  —  Mis'  Fire  Chief  Merriman,  lookin' 
like  the  grave  bed  spoke  up.  She'd  got  up  early  to  go 
alone  to  the  cemetery,  an',  my  house  bein'  the  nearest, 
she'd  come  rushin'  back  to  me  with  her  news. 

"Cally!'  s'she,  from  almost  before  she  laid  eyes 
on  me,  'Cally!  Somebody's  stole  every  last  one  o' 
the  flowers  off'n  Sum's  grave.  An  the  ribbins/ 

"She  was  fair  beside  herself,  bein'  as  the  loss  hed 
piled  up  on  a  long  sickness  o'  Sum's,  an'  a  big  doctor's 
bill  consequent,  an'  she  nervous  anyhow,  an'  a  good 


156  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

deal  o*  the  ribbin  tyin'  the  stems  was  silk,  both 
sides. 

"Til  hev  out  the  marshal/  s'she,  wild.  'Til 
send  for  Timothy.  They  can't  hev  got  far  with  'em. 
Fll  know/  s'she,  defiant,  'whether  they's  anything  to 
the  law  or  whether  they  ain't.' 

"  I  hed  her  take  some  strong  coffee  from  breakfast, 
an'  I  got  her,  after  some  more  fumin's  an'  fustin's,  to 
walk  back  to  the  cemetery  with  me,  till  we  give  a  look 
around.  I  do  as  many  quick-moved  things  as  some, 
but  I  allus  try,  first,  to  give  a  look  around. 

"An'  another  thing/  s'l  to  her,  as  we  set  out,  'are 
you  sure,  Mis'  Fire  Chief,  that  you  got  to  the  right 
grave  ?  The  first  visit,  so/  I  says,  '  an'  not  bein' 
accustomed  to  bein'  a  widow,  lately,  an'  all,  you 
might  'a'  got  mixed  in  the  lots.' 

"While  she  was  disclaimin'  this  I  looked  up  an' 
see,  hangin'  round  the  road,  was  Eb.  He  seemed 
some  sheepish  when  he  see  me,  an'  he  said,  hasty, 
that  he'd  just  got  there,  an'  it  come  over  me  like  a 
flash't  he'd  come  to  see  Elspie  off.  An'  I  marched 
a-past  him  without  hardly  a  word. 

"We  wasn't  mor'n  out  o'  the  house  when  we  heard  a 
shout,  an*  there  come  Silas  an'  Timothy,  tearin'  along 
full  tilt  in  the  store  delivery  wagon,  wavin'  their  arms. 

"'It's  Elspie  —  Elspie!'  they  yelled,  when  they 
was  in  hearin'.  'She  ain't  to  the  depot.  She'll  be 
left.  Where  is  she  ?' 


LONESOME. —II  157 

"  I  hadn't  counted  on  their  comin*  before  the  train 
ieft,  but  I  thought  I  see  my  way  clear.  An*  when 
they  come  up  to  us,  I  spoke  to  'em,  quiet. 

'"She's  in  the  house,  asleep,'  s'l,  'an*  what's 
more,  in  that  house  she's  goin'  to  stay  as  long  as  she 
wants.  But,'  s'l,  without  waitin'  for  'em  to  bu'st 
out,  'there's  more  important  business  than  that  afoot 
for  the  marshal;'  an'  then  I  told  'em  about  Sum 
Merriman's  flowers.  '  An','  s'l,  'you'd  better  come 
an'  see  about  that  now  —  an'  let  Eppleby  an'  the 
others  take  down  the  inmates,  an'  you  go  after  'em 
on  the  8.05.  It  ain't  often,'  s'l,  crafty,  'that  we  get 
a  thief  in  Friendship.' 

"I  hed  Timothy  Toplady  there,  an*  he  knew  it. 
He's  rill  sensitive  about  the  small  number  o'  arrests 
he's  made  in  the  village  in  his  term.  He  excited  up 
about  it  in  a  minute. 

"'Blisterin'  Benson!'  he  says,  'ain't  this  what 
they  call  vandalism  ?  Look  at  it  right  here  in  our 
midst  like  a  city!'  says  he,  fierce  —  an'  showin' 
through  some  gleeful. 

"Why,  sir,'  says  Silas  Sykes,  'mebbe  it's  them 
human  goals.  Mebbe  they've  dug  Sum  up,'  he  says, 
'an  mebbe — '  But  I  hushed  him  up.  Silas  Sykes 
always  grabs  on  to  his  thoughts  an'  throws  'em  out, 
dressed  or  undressed.  He  ain't  a  bit  o'  reserve. 
Not  a  thought  of  his  head  that  he  don't  part  with. 
If  he  had  hands  on  his  forehead,  you  could  tell  what 
time  he  is  —  I  think  you  could,  anyway. 


158  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"Well,  it  was  rill  easy  to  manage  'em,  they  bemf 
men  an'  susceptible  to  fascinations  o'  lawin'  it  over 
somethin'.  An'  we  all  got  into  the  delivery  wagon, 
an*  Eb,  he  come  too,  sittin'  in  back,  listenin'  an* 
noddin',  his  feet  hangin'  over  the  box  informal. 

"I  allus  remember  how  the  cemetery  looked 
that  mornin'.  It  was  the  tag  end  o'  June  —  an'  in 
June  cemeteries  seems  like  somewheres  else.  The 
Sodality  hed  been  tryin'  to  get  a  new  iron  fence, 
but  they  hadn't  made  out  then,  an5  they  ain't  made 
out  now  —  an'  the  old  whitewashed  fence  an'  the 
field  stone  wall  was  fair  pink  with  wild  roses,  an' 
the  mulberry  tree  was  alive  with  birds,  an'  the 
grass  layin'  down  with  dew,  an'  the  white  grave- 
stones set  around,  placid  an'  quiet,  like  other  kind 
o'  folks  that  we  don't  know  about.  Mis'  Fire  Chief 
Merriman,  she  went  right  through  the  wet  grass, 
cross  lots  an'  round  graves,  holdin'  up  her  mournin' 
an'  showin'  blue  beneath  —  kind  o'  secular,  like 
her  thinkin'  about  the  all-silk  ribbin  at  such  a  time. 
Sure  enough,  she  knew  her  way  to  the  lot  all  right. 
An'  there  was  the  new  grave,  all  sodered  green,  an* 
not  a  sprig  nor  a  stitch  to  honour  it. 

"'Now!'   says  Mis'   Merriman,   rill  triumphant. 

"'Land,  land!'  s'l,  seein'  how  it  rilly  was. 

"Timothy  an'  Silas,  they  both  pitched  in  an' 
talked  at  once  an'  bent  down,  technical,  lookin'  for 
tracks.  But  Eb,  he  just  begun  seemin'  peculiar  — 


LONESOME.  —  II  159 

an'  then  he  slipped  off  somewheres,  though  we  never 
missed  him,  till,  in  a  minute,  he  come  runnin'  back. 

' '  Come  here  ! '  he  says.  '  Come  on  over  here  a 
little  ways,'  he  told  us,  an'  not  knowin'  anything 
better  to  do  we  turned  an'  went  after  him,  wonderin' 
what  on  the  earth  was  the  matter  with  him  an'  ready 
to  believe  'most  anything. 

"Eb  led  us  past  the  vault  where  Obe  Toplady, 
Timothy's  father,  lays  in  a  stone  box  you  can  see 
through  the  grating  tiptoe ;  an'  round  by  the  sample 
cement  coffin  that  sets  where  the  drives  meet  for 
advertisin'  purposes,  an'  you  go  by  wonderin'  whose 
it'll  be,  an'  so  on  over  toward  the  Old  Part  o'  the 
cemetery,  down  the  slope  of  the  hill  where  every- 
body's forgot  who's  who  or  where  they  rest,  an'  no 
names,  so.  But  it's  always  blue  with  violets  in  May 

—  like  Somebody  remembered,  anyhow. 

"When  we  got  to  the  top  o'  the  hill,  we  all  looked 
down  the  slope,  shinin'  with  dew  an'  sunniness,  an' 
little  flowers  runnin'  in  the  grass,  thick  as  thick, 
till  at  the  foot  o'  the  hill  they  fair  made  a  garden, 

—  a  garden  about  the  size  of  a  grave,  knee-deep  with 
flowers.     From  where  we  stood  we  could  see  'em  — 
hothouse  roses  an'  straw  flowers,  an'  set  pieces,  an'  a 
lot  o'  pillows,  an'  ribbins  layin'  out  on  the  grass. 
An'  there,  side  of  'em,  broodin'  over  'em  lovin',  set 
Elspie,  that  I'd  thought  was  in  my  house  asleep. 

"Mis'    Fire   Chief,    she   wasn't   one   to   hesitate. 


160  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

She  was  over  the  hill  in  a  minute,  the  blue  edge  o1 
petticoat  bannerin'  behind. 

"Up-M«  my  word/  s'she,  like  a  cut,  'if  this  ain't 
a  pretty  note.  What  under  the  sun  are  you  doin' 
sittin'  there,  Elspie,  with  my  flowers  ? ' 

"  Elspie  looked  up  an'  see  her,  an*  see  us  streamin* 
toward  her  over  the  hill. 

'They  ain't  your  flowers,  are  they  ?'  s'she,  quiet. 
'They're  the  dead's.  I  was  a-goin'  to  take  'em 
back  in  a  minute  or  two,  anyway,  an'  I'll  take  'em 
back  now/ 

"She  got  up,  simple  an'  natural,  an'  picked  up 
the  fruit  piece  an'  one  o'  the  pillows,  an'  started  up 
the  hill. 

''Well,  I  nev-er,'  says  Mis'  Merriman;  'the 
very  bare  brazenness.  Ain't  you  goin'  to  tell  me 
what  you're  doin'  here  with  the  flowers  you  say  is 
the  dead's,  an'  I'm  sure  what  was  Sum's  is  mine 
an'  the  dead's  the  same  — ' 

"She  begun  to  cry  a  little,  an'  with  that  Elspie 
looks  up  at  her,  troubled. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  make  you  cry,'  she  says.  'I 
didn't  mean  you  should  know  anything  about  it. 
I  come  early  to  do  it  —  I  thought  you  wouldn't 
know/ 

"'Do  what?9  says  Mis'  Merriman,  rill  snappish. 

"Elspie  looks  around  at  us  then  as  if  she  first 
rilly  took  us  in.  An'  when  she  sees  Eb  an'  me 


LONESOME.  —  II  161 

standin*  together,  she  give  us  a  little  smile  —  an* 
she  sort  o'  answered  to  us  two. 

"'Why/  she  says,  'I  ain't  got  anybody,  anywheres 
here,  dead  or  alive,  that  belongs.  The  dead  is  all 
other  folks's  dead,  an*  the  livin'  is  all  other  folks's 
folks.  An*  when  I  see  all  the  graves  down  here  that 
they  don't  nobody  know  who's  they  are,  I  thought 
mebbe  one  of  'em  wouldn't  care  —  if  I  kind  of  — 
adopted  it.' 

"At  that  she  sort  o'  searched  into  Mis'  Merriman's 
face,  an'  then  Elspie's  head  went  down,  like  she  hed 
to  excuse  herself. 

"I  thought,'  she  said,  'they  must  be  so  dead  — 
an'  no  names  on  'em  an'  all  —  an'  their  live  folks 
all  dead  too  by  now  —  nobody'd  care  much.  I 
thought  of  it  yesterday  when  we  was  walkin'  down 
here,'  she  said,  'an'  I  picked  out  the  grave  —  it's 
the  littlest  one  here.  An'  then  when  we  come  back 
past  where  the  funeral  was,  an'  I  see  them  flowers  — 
seemed  like  I  hed  to  see  how  'twould  be  to  put  'em 
on  my  grave,  that  I'd  took  over.  So  I  come  early 
an'  done  it.  But  I  was  goin'  to  lay  'em  right  back 
where  they  belong  —  I  truly  was.' 

"I  guess  none  of  us  hed  the  least  /'-dea  what 
to  say.  We  just  stood  there  plain  tuckered  in  the 
part  of  us  that  senses  things.  All,  that  is,  but  one 
of  us.  An'  that  one  was  Eb  Goodnight. 

"I  can  see  Eb  now,  how  he  just  walked  out  o* 


162  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

the  line  of  us  standin'  there,  starin',  an'  he  goes 
right  up  to  Elspie  an'  he  looks  her  in  the  face. 

"'You're  lonesome,'  s'he,  kind  o'  wonderin'. 
'You're  lonesome.  Like  —  other  folks.' 

"An*  all  to  once  Eb  took  a-hold  o'  her  elbow  — 
not  loose  an'  temporary  like  he  shook  hands,  but 
firm  an'  four-cornered;  an'  when  he  spoke  it  was 
like  his  voice  hed  been  starched  an'  ironed. 

"'Mis'  Fire  Chief,'  s'he,  lookin'  round  at  her, 
Ts  to  let  you  know  this  week  whether  I'd  take  over 
the  store.  Well,  yes,'  he  says,  '  if  you'll  give  me  the 
time  on  it  we  mentioned,  I'll  take  it  over.  An'  if 
Elspie'll  marry  me  an'  let  me  belong  to  her,  an'  her 


to  me.' 


"'Marry  you?'  says  Elspie,  understandin'  how 
he'd  rilly  spoke  to  her.  'Me?9 

"Eb  straightened  himself  up,  an'  his  eyes  was 
bright  an'  keen  as  the  edge  o'  somethin'. 

"'Yes,  you,'  he  says  gentle.     'An'  me/ 

"An'  then  she  looked  at  him  like  he  was  lookin' 
at  her.  An'  it  come  to  me  how  it'd  been  with  them 
two  since  the  night  they'd  locked  up  my  house 
together.  An*  I  felt  all  hushed  up,  like  the  weddin' 
was  beginnin*. 

"But  Timothy  an'  Silas,  they  wa'n't  feelin'  so 
hushed. 

"Look  a-here!'  says  Timothy  Toplady,  all  pent 
up-     'She  ain't  discharged  from  the  county  house  yet.' 


LONESOME.  —  II  163 

"'I  don't  care  a  dum*  says  Eb,  an'  I  must  say  I 
respected  him  for  the  '  dum '  —  that  once. 

'"Look  a-here,'  says  Silas,  without  a  bit  o'  deli- 
cacy. 'She  ain't  responsible.  She  ain't — ' 

'"She  is  too,'  Eb  cut  him  short.  'She's  just  as 
responsible  as  anybody  can  be  when  they're  lonesome 
enough  to  die.  7  ought  'a'  know  that.  Shut  up, 
Silas  Sykes,'  says  Eb,  all  het  up.  'You've  just  et  a 
hot  breakfast  your  wife  hed  ready  for  you.  You 
don't  know  what  you're  talkin'  about.' 

"An*  then  Eb  sort  o'  swep'  us  all  up  in  the  dust- 
pan. 

"No  more  words  about  it,'  s'he,  'an'  I  don't  care 
what  any  one  o'  you  says  —  Mis'  Cally  nor  none  o' 
you.  So  you  might  just  as  well  say  less.  Tell  'em, 
Elspie!' 

"She  looked  up  at  him,  smilin'  a  little,  an'  he 
turned  toward  her,  like  we  wasn't  there.  An'  I 
nudged  Mis'  Merriman  an'  made  a  move,  an'  she 
turns  right  away,  like  she'd  fair  forgot  the  funeral 
flowers.  An'  Timothy  an'  Silas  actually  followed 
us,  but  talkin'  away  a  good  deal  —  like  men  will. 

"  None  of  us  looked  back  from  the  top  o'  the  hill, 
though  I  will  own  I  would  'a'  loved  to.  An'  about 
up  there  I  heard  Silas  say:  — 

"'Oh,  well.  I  am  gettin'  kind  o'  old  an*  some 
stiff  to  take  a  new  business  on  myself.' 

"An'  Timothy,  he  adds  absent:  'I  don't  s'pose, 


1 64  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

when  you  come  right  down  to  it,  as  Alice  County'll 
rilly  care  a  whoop.' 

"An*  Mis'  Fire  Chief  Merriman,  she  wipes  up  her 
eyes,  an',  'It  does  seem  like  courtin'  with  Sum's 
flowers,'  she  says,  sighin',  'but  I'm  rill  glad  for  Eb.' 

"An'  Eb  not  bein'  there  to  agree  with  her,  I  says 
to  myself,  lookin'  at  the  mornin'  sun  on  the  cemetery 
an'  thinkin'  o'  them  two  back  there  among  the  baskets 
an'  set  pieces  —  I  says,  low  to  myself:  — 
"Oh,  glory,  glory,  glory.' 

"  For  I  tell  you,  when  you  see  a  livin'  soul  born  in 
somebody's  eyes,  it  makes  you  feel  pretty  sure  you 
can  hev  one  o'  your  own,  if  you  try." 


XII 

OF  THE  SKY  AND  SOME  ROSEMARY 

WHEN  the  Friendship  Married  Ladies'  Cemetery 
Improvement  Sodality  had  its  Evening  Benefit  at 
my  house,  Delia  More  came  to  help  in  the  kitchen. 
She  steadfastly  refused  to  be  a  guest.  "  I'd  love  bein' 
'round  there,"  she  said,  "over  the  stove,  or  that 
way.  But  I  can't  —  cant  be  company  —  yet.  When 
I  think  of  it,  it's  like  a  high  swing." 

So  she  stayed  in  the  kitchen,  and  it  was  charac- 
teristic of  Friendship  that  when  its  women  learned 
that  she  was  there,  they  all  went  —  either  deliberately 
or  for  a  drink  of  water  —  to  speak  with  her.  And 
they  all  did  learn  that  she  was  there.  "Who  you 
got  in  the  kitchen?"  was  a  part  of  the  small  talk 
from  guest  to  hostess.  The  men  stayed  "in  the 
other  part  of  the  house,"  Doctor  June  and  Eppleby 
Holcomb  sending  by  me  some  cordial  word  to  Delia. 
I  think  that  they  cannot  do  these  things  anywhere 
else  with  such  beautiful  delicacy. 

When  my  other  guests  had  taken  leave,  Calliope 

165 


x66  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

stayed  to  help  in  the  search  for  Mis'  Postmastef 
Sykes's  pickle  fork  and  two  of  Mis'  Helman's  napkins 
(the  latter  marked  with  L  because  the  store  had 
been  out  of  papier-mache  H's,  and  it  didn't  matter 
what  letter  so  long  as  you  knew  it  meant  you)  and 
all  the  other  borrowed  articles  whose  mislaying 
made  any  Sodality  gathering  a  kind  of  panic.  More- 
over, Calliope  had  been  helping  and  we,  and  Delia, 
had  been  far  too  busy  to  taste  supper. 

We  would  have  said  that  the  true  life  of  the  evening 
was  done  instead  of  just  beginning.  But  when  we 
entered  the  kitchen,  we  found  Delia  More  serving  the 
supper  on  an  end  of  the  baking  table,  while  warming 
his  hands  at  the  range  stood  Abel  Halsey. 

"I  came  in  across  the  track,  from  the  hills,"  Abel 
explained  to  me.  "I  didn't  know  you  had  doings 
till  I  tied  and  blanketed  —  an'  I  came  on  in  anyhow, 
back  way.  I'm  in  luck  too.  I  haven't  had  supper." 

We  four  sat  down  in  that  homely  cheer,  and 
before  us  was  the  Sodality's  exquisite  cookery.  It 
was  good  to  have  Abel  there.  Since  my  coming  to 
Friendship  I  had  seen  him  often,  and  my  wonder  at 
him  had  deepened.  He  was  alive  to  the  finger-tips 
and  by  nature  equipped  to  conquer  through  sheer 
mentality,  but  he  seemed  deliberately  to  have  fore- 
gone the  prizes  for  the  tasks  of  the  lower  places. 
Not  only  so,  but  he  who  understood  all  fine  things 
seemed  to  regard  his  tastes  as  naivete,  and  to  have 


OF  THE   SKY  AND  SOME   ROSEMARY        167 

won  away  from  them,  as  if  he  had  set  "  above  all 
wisdom  and  subtlety"  the  unquenchable  spirit 
which  he  knew.  And  withal  he  was  so  merry,  so 
human,  so  big,  and  so  good-looking.  "Handsome 
as  Calvert  Oldmoxon,"  the  older  ones  in  Friendship 
were  accustomed  to  say,  —  save  Calliope,  whom  I 
had  never  heard  say  that,  —  but  I  myself,  if  I  had 
not  had  my  simile  already  selected,  would  have  said 
"as  Abel  Halsey."  If  a  god  were  human,  I  think 
that  Abel  would  have  been  very  like  a  god.  And  to 
this  opinion  his  experiences  were  continually  bearing 
witness. 

That  night,  for  example,  he  was  in  the  merriest 
humour,  and  told  us  a  tale  of  how,  that  day,  the  sky 
had  fallen.  There  had  been  down  on  the  Pump  pas- 
ture, deep  fog,  white  and  thic^  and  folded  in,  and 
above  him  blue  sky,  when  he  had  emerged  on  the 
Hill  Road  and  driven  on  with  his  eyes  shut.  ("When 
I  need  an  adventure,"  he  said,  "I  just  trot  old  Major 
Mary  with  my  eyes  shut.  Courting  death  isn't 
half  as  costly  as  they  think  it  is.")  And  when  he 
had  opened  his  eyes,  the  sky  was  gone,  and  everything 
was  white  and  thick  and  folded  in  and  fabulous. 
Obviously,  as  he  convinced  us,  the  sky  had  fallen. 
But  he  had  driven  on  through  it  and  in  it,  and  had 
found  it,  as  I  recall  his  account,  to  be  made  of  inex- 
tinguishable dreams.  These,  Abel  ran  on,  are  on 
the  other  side  of  the  sky  for  anybody  who  claims 


168  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

them,  and  our  sandwiches  were,  above  all  sand- 
wiches, delicious.  He  was  so  merry  that  Calliope 
and  I,  by  a  nod  or  a  smile  of  understanding,  played 
our  role  of  merely,  so  to  say,  proving  that  the  films 
were  right  —  for  you  may  have  an  inspired  con- 
versational photographer,  but  unless  you  are  properly 
prepared  chemically  he  can  get  no  pictures.  As 
Calliope  had  said  of  her  evening  with  Eb  and  Elspie, 
"the  air  in  the  room  was  easy  to  get  through  with 
what  you  had  to  say  —  it  was  that  kind  of  evening." 
Sometimes  I  wonder  if  an  hour  like  that  is  real  time; 
or  is  it,  instead,  a  kind  of  chronometrical  fairy,  hav- 
ing no  real  existence  on  the  dial,  but  only  in  essence. 
As  I  think  of  it  now  the  hour,  if  it  was  an  hour,  was 
simply  a  background  for  Delia  More.  For  it  was 
not  only  Calliope  ail  who  responded  to  Abel's 
light-hearted  talk,  but,  little  by  little,  it  was  Delia 
too.  Perhaps  it  was  that  faint  spark  in  her  —  fanned 
to  life  on  the  night  of  her  coming  home,  so  that  she 
"took  stock"  —  which  we  now  divined  faintly 
quickening  to  Abel's  humour,  his  wisdom,  even  his 
fancies.  Save  in  her  bitterness,  on  that  first  night, 
I  had  not  heard  her  laugh ;  and  it  was  as  if  something 
were  set  free.  I  could  not  help  looking  at  her,  but 
that  did  not  matter,  for  she  did  not  see  me.  She 
was  listening  to  Abel  with  an  almost  childish  delight 
in  her  face;  and  in  her  eyes  was  the  look  of  one  in  a 
place  before  unvisited. 


OF  THE   SKY  AND  SOME   ROSEMARY        169 

Some  while  after  we  had  moved  away  from  thft 
table  and  sat  together  about  the  cooking  range,  we 
heard  the  questioning  horn  of  a  motor.  We  knew 
that  it  would  belong  to  the  Proudfits,  since  for  us 
in  Friendship  there  exists  no  other  motor,  and  more- 
over this  one  was  standing  at  my  gate.  Abel  went 
out  there  and  came  back  to  tell  us  that  the  car  had 
been  in  town  to  fetch  the  Proudfits'  lawyer,  and  that 
Madame  Proudfit  had  kindly  sent  it  for  Delia  "and 
spoilt  everything,"  he  added  frankly.  As  he  said 
that,  Abel  looked  at  her,  and  I  saw  that  a  dream  may 
persist  through  personality  itself.  As  I  have  said, 
if  a  god  were  human,  Abel  would  have  been  like  a 
god;  and  in  nothing  more  so  than  in  this  under- 
standing of  the  immortalities. 

Calliope  stood  up  and  caught,  and  held,  my  eyes 
in  passing. 

"Let's  you  and  Abel  and  I  take  Delia  home  in 
the  automobile,"  she  said;  "there  ain't  anything  so 
good  for  folks  as  fresh  air." 

I  brought  a  warm  wrap  for  Delia,  a  crimson 
cloak  of  mine  which,  so  to  say,  drew  a  line  about 
her,  defining  her  prettiness;  and  in  the  starlight 
we  set  off  along  the  snowless  Plank  Road,  Delia  and 
Abel  and  I  in  the  tonneau  of  the  machine,  and  I 
silent.  It  had  befallen  strangely  that  over  this  road 
Delia  More  and  I  should  be  faring  in  the  Proudfits' 
car,  and  beside  her  Abel  Halsey  as  if,  for  such  as 


170  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

he  and  she,  a  dream  may,  just  possibly,  come 
back. 

"See,"  she  said  to  Abel,  "the  sky  has  gone  back 
up  again." 

"Yes,"  Abel  assented,  "one  of  the  things  even  the 
sky  can't  do  is  to  change  the  way  things  are." 

"Oh,  I  know,  I  know  ..."  said  Delia  More. 

"I  want  you  to  feel  that,"  said  Abel,  gently. 
"Things  are  the  way  things  are,  and  no  use  trying 
to  leave  them  out  of  it.  Besides,  you  need  them. 
They're  foundation.  Then  you  build,  and  build 
better.  That's  all  there  is  to  it,  Delia." 

She  was  silent,  and  Abel  sat  looking  up  at  the  stars. 

"All  there  is  to  it  except  what  I  said  about  the 
other  side  of  the  sky,"  he  said.  "And  then  me.  I'll 
help." 

From  my  thought  of  these  two  I  remember  that  I 
drifted  on  to  some  consideration  of  myself,  for  their 
presence  opened  old  paths  where  were  in  durance 
things  that  did  their  best  to  escape,  and  were  dis- 
quieting. I  thought  also  of  Calliope,  of  whose  story 
I  had  heard  a  little  from  one  and  another.  And  it 
seemed  to  me  that  possibly  Delia  More's  laughter 
and  her  wistfulness  summed  us  all  up. 

When  we  drew  up  at  the  entrance  to  Proudfit 
House  we  all  alighted,  Calliope  and  Abel  and  I  to 
walk  home.  But  while  we  were  saying  good  night 
to  Delia,  the  door  opened  and  Clementina  Proudfit 


OF  THE   SKY  AND   SOME   ROSEMARY         171 

stood  against  the  light.  The  car  was  to  wait,  she 
said,  to  take  Mr.  Baring,  the  lawyer,  to  the  mid- 
night train.  And  then,  as  she  saw  her:  — 

"Calliope!"  she  cried,  "I  never  wanted  anybody 
so  much.  Come  in  and  make  Mr.  Baring  a  cup  of 
your  good  coffee  —  you  will,  Calliope  ?  Mother 
and  I  will  be  with  him  for  half  an  hour  yet.  Come, 
all  of  you,  and  help  her." 

We  went  in,  lingering  for  a  moment  by  the  draw- 
ing-room fire  while  Miss  Clementina  went  below 
stairs;  and  I  noted  how,  in  that  room  colourful 
and  of  fair  proportion,  Abel  Halsey  in  his  shabby 
clothes  moved  as  simply  as  if  the  splendour  were  not 
there.  He  stood  looking  down  at  Delia,  in  her  white 
dress,  the  crimson  cloak  catching  the  firelight; 
while  Calliope  and  I,  before  a  length  of  Beauvais 
tapestry,  talked  with  spirit  about  both  tapestry  and 
coffee-making.  ("  My  grandmother  use'  to  crochet 
faces  an'  figgers  in  her  afaghans,  too,"  Calliope 
commented,  "an*  when  I  looked  at  'em  they  use' 
to  make  me  feel  kind  o'  mad.  But  with  these,  I 
don't  care  at  all.")  And  when  Miss  Clementina 
returned,  — 

"Now,"  Calliope  said  to  me,  "you  come  with  me 
an'  help  about  the  coffee,  will  you  ?  An'  Delia, 
you  an'  Abel  stay  here.  Nothin'  will  put  me  out  o' 
my  head  so  quick  —  nothin  —  as  too  many  flyin' 
'round  the  kitchen  when  I'm  tryin'  to  do  work." 


172  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

We  went  downstairs,  and  Miss  Clementina  re- 
joined her  mother  and  the  lawyer  in  the  library, 
and  Delia  and  Abel  were  left  alone  together  in  the 
firelight.  If  I  had  been  a  dream,  and  had  been 
intending  to  come  back  at  all,  I  think  that  I  must 
have  come  then. 

"Pray,  why  don't  you?"  said  Calliope  to  me 
almost  savagely  on  the  kitchen  stairs. 

The  coffee-making  was  a  slow  process  and  a 
silent  one.  Calliope  and  I  were  both  absorbed  in 
what  had  so  wonderfully  come  about :  That  Delia 
More,  who  was  dead,  was  alive  again;  or  rather, 
that  her  spirit,  patient  within  her  through  all  the 
years  of  its  loneliness,  was  coming  forth  at  the 
sound  of  Abel's  voice.  We  were  alone  in  the  kitchen, 
and  when  the  coffee  was  over  the  flame,  we  stood  at 
the  window  looking  out  on  the  black  kitchei.  gardens. 
There  lay  the  yellow  reflection  of  the  room,  with  that 
unreality  of  all  window-mirrored  rooms,  so  that  if 
one  might  walk  within  them  one  would  almost 
certainly  wear  one's  self  with  a  difference. 

"Ain't  it  like  somethin'  bright  was  in  the  inside  o' 
the  garden,"  Calliope  put  it,  "just  the  way  I  told 
you  Abel  feels  about  everything  ?  That  they's  some- 
thing inside,  hid,  kind  of  secret  an'  holy  —  like  the 
dreams  he  said  was  in  the  sky.  I  guess  mebbe  he's 
believed  that  about  Delia  all  these  years.  An'  now 
he's  bringin'  it  out.  Oh,"  she  said,  "the  kitchen  is 


OF  THE  SKY  AND  SOME   ROSEMARY         173 

where  you  can  tell  about  things  best.  Seems  to  me 
youd  ought  to  know  somethin'  about  Delia  an' 
Abel." 

And  I  wanted  to  hear. 

"Abel  see  Delia  first,"  Calliope  told  me  then, 
"to  the  Rummage  Sale  that  the  Cemetery  Auxiliary, 
that  the  Sodality  use'  to  be,  give.  That  is  to  say, 
they  didn't  give  it,  as  it  turned  out  —  they  just  had 
it,  you  might  say.  Abel  was  twenty-five  or  so,  an' 
he'd  just  come  here  fresh  ordained  a  minister.  We 
found  he  wa'n't  the  kind  to  stop  short  on,  Be  good 
yourself  an'  then  a  crown.  No,  but  he  just  went  after 
the  folks  that  was  livin'  along,  moral  an'  step- 
pickin',  an'  he  says  to  us,  'What  you  sittin'  down 
here  for,  enjoyin'  yourselves  bein'  moral  ?  Get  out 
an'  help  the  rest  o'  the  world,'  he  says.  But  every- 
body liked  him  in  spite  o'  that,  an'  he  was  goin'  to  be 
installed  minister  in  our  church. 

"Then  the  Rummage  Sale  come  on  an'  he  met 
Delia.  Delia  was  eighteen  an'  just  back  from 
visitin'  in  the  City,  with  her  veil  a  new  way,  an'  I 
never  see  prettier.  She  was  goin'  to  take  charge  o' 
the  odd  waists  table,  an'  Abel  was  runnin'  'round 
helpin'  —  Abel  wa'n't  the  white-cuff  kind,  like  some, 
but  he  always  pitched  in  an'  stirred  up  whatever  was 
a-stewin'.  He  come  bringin'  in  an  armful  o'  old 
shoes  somebody'd  fetched  down,  an'  just  as  she 
was  beginnin'  on  the  odd  waists,  sortin'  'em  over, 


174  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

he  met  Delia.  I  remember  she  looks  up  at  him 
from  under  that  veil  an*  from  over  a  red  basque 
she'd  picked  off  the  pile,  an',  '  Mr.  Halsey,'  she  says, 
'I've  a  notion  to  buy  this  myself  an'  be  savin'/ 
That  took  Abel  —  Delia  was  so  pretty  an'  fluffy  that 
hearin'  her  talk  savin'  was  about  like  seein'  a  butter- 
fly washin'  out  its  own  wings.  'Do,'  says  he,  'the 
red  is  beautiful  on  you,'  s'e,  shovin'  the  blame  off 
on  to  the  red.  An'  when  he  got  done  with  the  shoes 
he  come  over  to  help  on  the  waists  too  —  I  was  lookin' 
over  the  child  sizes,  next  table,  an'  I  see  the  whole 
business. 

"I  will  say  their  talk  was  wonderful  pretty.  It 
run  on  sort  o'  easy,  slippin'  along  over  little  laughs 
an'  no  hard  work  to  keep  it  goin'.  Abel  had  a  nice 
way  o'  cuttin'  his  words  out  sharp  —  like  they  was 
made  o'  somethin'  with  sizin'  on  the  back  an'  stayed 
where  he  put  'em.  An'  his  laugh  would  sort  o' 
clamp  down  soft  on  a  joke  an'  make  it  double  funny. 
An'  Delia,  she  was  right  back  at  him,  give  for  take, 
an'  though  she  was  rill  genial,  she  was  shy.  An* 
come  to  think  of  it,  Abel  was  just  as  full  o'  his 
fancyin's  then  as  he  is  now. 

"'Old  clothes,'  he  says  to  her,  'always  seems  to 
me  sort  o'  haunted.' 

"'Haunted  ?'    I  know  she  asks  him,  wonderin*. 

"'All  steeped  in  what  folks  have  been  when  they've 
wore  'em/  s'e,  'an'  givin'  it  out  again.' 


OF  THE   SKY  AND   SOME   ROSEMARY        17$ 

"'Oh  .  .  .'  Delia  says,  <I  never  thought  o'  that 
before/ 

"An'  she  see  what  he  meant,  too.  Delia  wa'n't 
one  to  get  up  little  wavy  notions  like  that,  but  she 
could  see  'em  when  told.  An'  neither  was  she  one 
to  do  one  way  instead  of  another  by  just  her  own 
willin'  it,  but  if  somebody  pointed  things  out  to  her, 
then  she'd  see  how,  an'  do  the  right.  An'  I  think 
Abel  understood  that  about  her  —  that  her  soul  was 
sort  o'  packed  down  in  her  an'  would  hev  to  be 
loosened  gentle,  before  it  could  speak.  Like  Peleg 
Bemus  says  about  his  flute,"  Calliope  said,  smiling, 
"that  they's  something  packed  deep  down  in  it  that 
can't  say  things  it  knows." 

"Clothes  folks  wear,  rooms  they  live  in,  things 
they  use  —  they  all  get  like  the  folks  that  use  'em,' 
Abel  says,  layin'  black  with  black  an'  white  with 
white,  on  to  the  waist  table.  'It  makes  us  want  to 
step  careful,  don't  it?'  s'e.  'I  think,'  s'e,  simple, 
'your  dresses  —  an'  ribbins  —  an'  your  veil  —  must 
go  about  doin'  pleasant  things  without  you.' 

"Oh,  no,'  says  Delia,  demure,  'I  ain't  near  good 
enough,  Mr.  Halsey;  you  mustn't  think  that,'  she 
says  —  an'  right  while  he  was  lookin'  gentle  an' 
clerical  an'  ready  to  help  her,  she  dimples  out  all 
over  her  face.  'Besides,'  she  says,  'I  ain't  enough 
dresses  to  spare  away  from  me  for  that.  I  ain't  but 
about  two ! '  s'she.  An'  when  a  girl  is  all  rose  pink 


176  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

and  sky  blue  and  dainty  neat,  a  man  loves  to  hear 
her  brag  how  few  dresses  she's  got,  an*  Abel  wa'n't 
the  exception. 

"'Same  as  a  lily,'  says  he;  'they  only  have  one 
dress.  Now,  what  else  shall  I  do?' 

"Well,  at  sharp  nine  the  Cemetery  Auxiliary 
come  to  order,  Mis'  Sykes  presidin',  like  she  always 
does  when  it's  time  for  a  hush.  The  doors  was  to 
open  to  the  general  public  at  ten  o'clock,  an'  the 
/'-dee  was  to  hev  the  Auxiliary  get  the  pick  o'  the 
goods  first,  payin'  the  reg'lar,  set,  marked  price. 
An'  just  as  they  was  ready  to  begin  pickin',  up  arrove 
the  Proudfit  pony  cart  with  a  great  big  box  o'  stuff, 
sent  to  the  sale.  Land,  land,  Mis'  Sykes  from  the 
chair  an'  the  others  the  same,  they  just  makes  one 
swoop  —  an'  begun  selectin';  an'  in  less  than  a  jiffy 
if  they  hadn't  selected  up  every  one  o'  the  Proudfit 
articles  themselves.  It  was  natural  enough.  The 
things  was  worth  havin'  —  pretty  curtains,  an' 
trimmin's  not  much  wore,  an'  some  millinery  an' 
dresses  with  the  new  hardly  off.  An'  the  Auxiliary 
paid  the  price  they  would  'a'  asked  anybody  else. 
They  was  anxious,  but  they  was  square. 

"That  just  seemed  to  get  their  hand  in.  Next, 
they  fell  to  on  the  other  tables  an'  begun  buyin'  from 
them.  They  was  lots  o'  things  that  most  anybody 
would  'a'  been  glad  to  hev  that  the  owners  had  sent 
down  sheer  through  bein'  sick  o'  seein'  'em  around  — • 


OF  THE   SKY  AND   SOME   ROSEMARY        177 

like  you  will  —  an*  couldn't  be  thrown  away  'count 
o'  conscience,  but  could  be  give  to  a  cause  an*  con- 
science not  notice.  We  had  quite  fun  buyin',  too  — 
knowin'  they  was  each  other's,  an*  no  hard  feelin'  — 
only  good  spirits  an'  pleased  with  each  other's  taste. 
Everybody  knew  who'd  sent  what,  an'  everybody 
hed  bought  it  for  some  not  so  high-minded  use  as  it 
hed  hed  before,  an'  kep'  their  dignity  that  way. 
Front-stair  carpet  was  bought  to  go  down  on  back 
stairs,  sittin'  room  lamp  for  chamber  lamp,  kitchen 
stove-pipe  for  wash  room  stovepipe,  an'  so  on,  an'  the 
clothes  to  make  rag  rugs  —  so  they  give  out.  The 
things  kep'  on  an'  on  bein'  snapped  up  hot-cake 
quick,  an'  the  crowd  beginnin'  to  gather  outside, 
waitin'  to  get  in,  made  'em  sort  o'  lose  their  heads  an' 
begin  buyin'  sole  because  things  was  cheap  —  bird- 
cages, a  machine  cover,  odd  table-leaves,  an*  like 
that.  The  Society  was  rill  large  then,  an'  what 
happened  might  'a'  been  expected.  When  ten 
o'clock  come  an'  it  was  time  to  open  the  door,  the 
Rummage  Sale  was  over,  an'  the  Auxiliary  hed 
bought  the  whole  thing  themselves. 

"We  never  thought  folks  might  be  anyways  mad 
about  it  —  but  I  tell  you,  they  was.  They  hed  been 
seein'  us  through  the  glass,  like  they  was  caged  in 
front  o'  bargain  day.  An'  when  Mis'  Toplady, 
fair  beamin',  unlocks  the  door  an'  tells  'em  the  sale 
was  through  with  an'  a  rill  success,  they  acted  some 

N 


178  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

het  up.  But  Mis'  Toplady,  she  bristles  back  at 
'em.  'I'm  sure,'  s'she, ' nobody  wants  you  to  die  an' 
be  buried  in  a  nice,  neat,  up-to-date,  kep'-up  cemet'ry 
if  you  don't  want  to.'  An'  o'  course  she  hed  'em 
there. 

"Well,  it  was  that  performance  o'  the  Auxiliary's 
that  rilly  brought  Delia  an'  Abel  together.  It 
seemed  to  strike  Abel  awful  funny,  an'  Delia,  lookin' 
at  it  with  him,  she  see  the  funny  too.  They  laughed 
a  good  deal,  an'  they  seemed  to  sort  o'  understand 
each  other  through  laughin',  like  you  will.  Delia 
bought  the  red  waist,  an'  Abel  walked  home  with 
her  —  an'  by  that  time  Abel,  with  his  half-scriptural, 
half-boy,  half-lover  way  that  he  couldn't  help,  was 
just  on  the  craggy  edge  o'  fallin'  in  love  with  her. 
But  I  b'lieve  it  wa'n't  love,  just  ordinary.  It  was 
more  like  Abel,  in  his  zeal  for  reddin'  up  the  world, 
see  that  he  could  do  for  Delia  what  nobody  else 
could  do  —  an'  her  for  him.  An'  that  both  of  'em 
workin'  together  could  do  more  through  knowin' 
each  other  was  near.  That's  the  way,'  Calliope 
said  shyly,  'lovin'  always  ought  to  be,  my  notion. 
An'  when  it  ain't,  things  is  likely  to  get  all  wrong. 
Sometime  —  sometime,'  she  said,  'you'll  hear  about 
me  —  an'  how  things  with  me  went  all  wrong. 
An'  I  want  you  to  remember,  no  matter  how  much 
it  don't  seem  my  fault  —  that  that's  why  they  did 
go  wrong  —  an'  no  other.  I  was  too  crude  selfish 


OF  THE   SKY  AND  SOME   ROSEMARY         179 

to  sense  what  love  is.  I  didn't  know  —  I  didn't 
know.  An'  so  with  lots  o'  folks. 

"I've  often  thought  that  Delia  an'  Abel  meetin' 
at  a  Rummage  Sale  was  like  all  the  rest  of  it.  There 
was  just  a  lot  o'  rubbish  lumberin'  up  the  whole 
situation.  Things  wasn't  happy  for  Delia  to  home 
—  her  mother,  Mis'  Crapwell,  had  married  again 
to  a  man  that  kep'  throwin'  out  about  hevin'  to  be 
support  to  Delia;  an'  her  stepsister,  Jennie  Crap- 
well,  was  sickly  an'  self-seekin'  an'  engaged  all  to 
once.  An'  the  young  carpenter  that  Jennie  was 
goin'  to  marry,  he  was  the  black-eyed,  hither-an'- 
yon  kind,  an'  crazier  over  Delia  from  the  first  than 
he  ever  was  over  Jcr  lie.  Delia,  she  was  shy  about 
not  havin'  much  education  —  Mis'  Proudfit  bed 
wanted  to  send  her  off  to  school,  an'  Mis'  Crapwell 
wouldn't  hear  to  it  —  an'  Abel  kep'  talkin'  that  he 
was  goin'  to  hev  a  big  church  in  the  City  some  day, 
an'  I  guess  that  scairt  Delia  some,  an'  Jennie  kep' 
frettin'  an'  houndin'  her,  one  way  an'  another,  an' 
a-callin'  her  'parson's  wife'  —  ain't  it  awful  the 
power  them  pin-pricky  things  has  if  we  let  'em  ? 
An'  Delia  wa'n't  the  kind  to  know  how  to  do  right  by 
her  own  willin'.  An'  so  all  to  once  we  woke  up  one 
mornin',  an'  she'd  done  what  she'd  done,  an'  no  help 
for  it. 

"It  was  only  a  month  after  Delia  an'  Abel  had 
met  that  Delia  went  away,  an'  Abel  hadn't  been 


i8o  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

installed  yet.  An*  when  Delia  done  that,  Abel  just 
settled  into  bein'  somebody  else.  He  seemed  to 
want  to  go  off  in  the  hills  an*  be  by  himself,  an' 
most  o'  the  time  he  done  so.  But  there  was  grace 
for  him  even  in  that:  Abel  see  the  hill  folks,  how 
they  didn't  hev  any  churches  nor  not  anything  else 
much,  an'  he  just  set  to  work  on  'em,  quiet  an' 
still.  He'd  wanted  to  go  away  an'  travel,  but  the 
chance  never  come.  An'  it  seemed,  then  on,  he  didn't 
want  even  to  hear  o'  the  City,  an'  when  his  chances 
there  come,  he  never  took  'em.  An*  Abel's  been 
'round  here  with  the  hill  folks  the  fourteen  years 
since,  an'  never  pastor  of  any  church  —  but  he 
got  the  blessedness,  after  all,  '  V  I  guess  the  chance 
to  do  better  service  than  any  other  way.  You  can 
see  how  he's  broad  an'  gentle  an'  tender  an'  strong, 
but  you  don't  know  what  he  does  for  folks  —  an' 
that's  the  best.  An'  yet  —  his  soul  must  be  sort  o* 
packed  away  too,  to  what  it  would  'a'  been  if  things 
had  'a'  gone  differ'nt  .  .  .  packed  away  an'  tryin*  to 
say  somethin'.  An'  now  Delia's  come  back  I 
b'lieve  Abel  knows  that,  an'  I  b'lieve  he  sees  the 
soul  in  her  needin'  him  too,  just  like  it  did  all 
that  time  —  waitin'  to  be  loosened,  gentle,  before 
it  can  speak;  an'  meanin'  things  it  can't  say, 
like  Peleg's  flute.  Oh,  don't  it  seem  like  the  dreams 
Abel  said  he  found  up  in  the  sky  had  ought  to  be 
let  come  true?" 


OF  THE   SKY  AND  SOME   ROSEMARY         181 

It  did  seem  as  if,  for  the  two  up  there  in  the 
drawing-room,  this  dream  might,  just  possibly, 
come  back. 

"But  then  you  never  can  tell  for  sure  about  the 
sky,  can  you?"  said  Calliope,  sighing. 

Coffee  was  served  in  the  library  where  Madame 
Proudfit  and  Miss  Clementina  had  been  in  con- 
sultation with  their  lawyer.  We  were  all  rather 
silent  as  Madame  Proudfit  sat  at  the  urn  and  the 
lawyer  handed  our  cups  down  some  long  avenue 
of  his  abstraction.  And  now  everything  seemed  to 
me  a  kind  of  setting  for  Delia  and  Abel,  and  Calliope 
kept  looking  at  them  as  if,  before  her  eyes,  things 
might  come  right.  So,  I  own,  did  I,  though  in  the 
Proudfit  library  it  was  usually  difficult  to  fix  my 
attention  on  what  passed;  for  it  was  in  that  room 
that  Linda  Proudfit's  portrait  hung,  and  the  beauti- 
ful eyes  seemed  always  trying  to  tell  one  what  the 
weary  absence  meant.  But  I  thought  again  that  this 
daughter  of  the  house  had  won  a  kind  of  presence 
there,  because  of  Madame  Proudfit's  tender  mother- 
care  of  Delia  More. 

Yet  it  was  to  this  care  that  Calliope  and  I  owed 
a  present  defeat;  for  when  we  were  leave-taking, — 

"We  shall  sail,  then,  the  moment  we  can  get  pass- 
age," Madame  Proudfit  observed  to  her  lawyer,  "pro- 
viding that  Clementina  can  arrange.  Delia,"  she 


182  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

added,  "Clementina  and  I  find  to-night  that  we  must 
sail  immediately  for  Europe,  for  six  months  or  so. 
And  we  want  to  carry  you  off  with  us." 

Madame  Proudfit  and  Miss  Clementina  and 
Delia  were  standing  with  us  outside  the  threshold, 
where  the  outdoors  had  met  us  like  something  that 
had  been  waiting.  There,  with  the  light  from  the 
hall  falling  but  dimly,  I  saw  in  Abel's  face  only  the 
glow  of  his  simple  joy  that  this  good  thing  had  come 
to  Delia  —  though,  indeed,  that  very  joy  told  much 
besides.  And  it  was  in  his  face  when  he  bade  Delia 
good  night  and,  since  he  was  expected  somewhere 
among  the  hills  for  days  to  come,  gave  her  God-speed. 
But  we  four  fell  momentarily  silent,  as  if  we  meant 
things  which  we  might  not  speak.  It  was  almost 
a  relief  to  hear  tapping  on  the  sidewalk  the  wooden 
leg  of  Peleg  Bemus,  while  a  familiar,  thin  little 
stream  of  melody  from  his  flute  made  its  way  about. 

"Doesn't  it  seem  as  if  Peleg  were  trying  to  tell 
one  something?"  said  Madame  Proudfit,  lightly, 
as  we  went  away. 

And  down  on  the  gravel  of  the  drive  Calliope  de- 
manded passionately  of  Abel  and  me :  — 

"Oh,  don't  some  things  make  you  want  to  pull 
the  sky  down  an'  wrap  up  in  it!" 

But  at  this  Abel  laughed  a  little. 

"It's  easier  to  pull  down  just  the  dreams,"  he  said 


XIII 

TOP    FLOOR   BACK 

ONE  morning  a  few  weeks  after  the  Proudfits 
had  left,  I  was  sitting  beside  Calliope's  cooking  range, 
watching  her  at  her  baking,  when  the  wooden  leg 
of  Peleg  Bemus  thumped  across  the  threshold,  and 
without  ceremony  he  came  in  from  the  shed  and 
stood  by  the  fire,  warming  his  axe  handle.  But 
Peleg's  intrusions  were  never  imputed  to  him. 
As  I  have  said,  his  gifts  and  experiences  had  given 
him  a  certain  authority.  Perhaps,  too,  he  reflected 
a  kind  of  institutional  dignity  from  his  sign,  which 
read :  — 

P.  BEMUS  :  RETAIL  SAW  MILLER 

At  the  moment  of  his  entrance  Calliope  was 
talking  of  Emerel  Kitton,  now  Mrs.  Abe  Daniel: 

"There's  them  two,"  she  said,  "seems  to  hev 
married  because  they  both  use  a  good  deal  o'  salt 
—  't  least  they  ain't  much  else  they're  alike  in. 

183 


184  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

An'  Emerel  is  just  one-half  workin'  her  head  off 
for  him.  Little  nervous  thing  she  is  —  when  I 
heard  she  was  down  with  nervous  prostration  two 
years  ago,  I  says,  'Land,  land,'  I  says,  'but  ain't  she 
always  had  it?'  They's  a  strain  o'  good  blood  in 
that  girl,  —  Al  Kitton  was  New  England,  —  but  they 
don't  none  of  it  flow  up  through  her  head.  She's 
great  on  sacrificin',  but  she  don't  sacrifice  judicious. 
If  folks  is  goin'  to  sacrifice,  I  think  they'd  ought  to 
do  it  conscientious,  the  kind  in  the  Bible,  same  as 
Abraham  an'  like  that." 

Peleg  Bemus  rubbed  one  hand  up  and  down  his 
axe  handle. 

"I  reckon  you  can't  always  tel1,  Miss  Marsh,'* 
he  said  meditatively.  "I  once  knowed  a  man  that 
done  some  sacrificin'  that  ain't  called  by  that  name 
when  it  gets  into  the  newspapers."  He  turned  to 
me,  with  a  manner  of  pointing  at  me  with  his  head, 
"You  been  in  New  York,"  he  said;  "ain't  you  ever 
heard  o'  Mr.  Loneway  —  Mr.  John  Loneway?" 

I  was  sorry  that  I  could  not  answer  "yes."  He 
was  so  expectant  that  I  had  the  sensation  of  having 
failed  him. 

"Him  an'  I  lived  in  the  same  building  in  East 
Fourteenth  Street  there,"  he  said.  "That  is  to  say, 
he  lived  top  floor  back  and  I  was  janitor.  That 
was  a  good  many  years  ago,  but  whenever  I  get  an 
introduction  to  anybody  that's  been  in  New  York, 


TOP   FLOOR   BACK  185 

I  allus  take  an  interest.  I'd  like  to  know  whatever 
become  of  him/' 

He  scrupulously  waited  for  our  question,  and  then 
sat  down  beside  the  oven  door  and  laid  his  axe 
across  his  knees. 

"It  was  that  hard  winter,"  he  told  us,  "about 
a  dozen  years  ago.  I'd  hev  to  figger  out  just  what 
year,  but  most  anybody  on  the  East  Side  can  tell 
you.  Coal  was  clear  up  an'  soarin',  an'  vittles  was 
too  —  everybody  howlin'  hard  times,  an'  the  Winter 
just  commenced.  Make  things  worse,  some  phi- 
lanthropist had  put  up  two  model  tenements  in  the 
block  we  was  in,  an'  property  alongside  had  shot  up 
in  value  accordin'  an'  lugged  rents  with  it.  Every- 
body in  my  buildin'  'most  was  rowin'  about  it. 

"But  John  Loneway,  he  wasn't  rowin'.  I  met 
him  on  the  stairs  one  mornin'  early  an'  I  says,  'Beg 
pardon,  sir,'  I  says,  'but  you  ain't  meanin'  to  make 
no  change?'  I  ask  him.  He  looks  at  me  kind  o' 
dazed  —  he  was  a  wonderful  clean-muscled  little 
chap,  with  a  crisscross  o'  veins  on  each  temple  an* 
big  brown  eyes  back  in  his  head.  'No,'  he  says. 
'Change?  I  can't  move.  My  wife's  sick,'  he  says. 
That  was  news  to  me.  I'd  met  her  a  couple  o' 
times  in  the  hall  —  pale  little  mite,  hardly  big  as 
a  baby,  but  pleasant-spoken,  an'  with  a  way  o' 
dressin'  herself  in  shabby  clo'es  that  made  the  other 
women  in  the  house  look  like  bundles  tied  up  care- 


186  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

less.  But  she  didn't  go  out  much  —  they  had  only 
been  in  the  house  a  couple  o'  weeks  or  so.  'Sick, 
is  she?'  I  says.  'Too  bad/  I  says.  'Anything 
I  can  do?'  I  ask  him.  He  stopped  on  the  nex' 
step  an'  looked  back  at  me.  'Got  a  wife  ?'  he  says. 
'No,'  says  I,  'I  ain't,  sir.  But  they  ain't  never 
challenged  my  vote  on  'count  o'  that,  sir  —  no 
offence,'  I  says  to  him  respectful.  'All  right/ 
he  says,  noddin'  at  me.  'I  just  thought  mebbe 
she'd  look  in  now  and  then.  I'm  gone  all  day/  he 
added,  an'  went  off  like  he'd  forgot  me. 

"I  thought  about  the  little  thing  all  that  mornin' 
—  layin'  all  alone  up  there  in  that  room  that  wa'n't 
no  bigger'n  a  coal-bin.  It's  bad  enough  to  be  sick 
anywheres,  but  it's  like  havin'  both  legs  in  a  trap 
to  be  sick  in  New  York.  Towards  noon  I  went 
into  one  o'  the  flats  —  first  floor  front  it  was  —  with 
the  kindlin'  barrel,  an'  I  give  the  woman  to  under- 
stand they  was  somebody  sick  in  the  house.  She 
was  a  great  big  creatur'  that  I'd  never  see  excep'  in 
red  calico,  an'  I  always  thought  she  looked  some 
like  a  tomato  ketchup  bottle,  with  her  apron  for 
the  label.  She  says,  when  I  told  her,  'You  see  if 
she  wants  anything/  she  says.  'I  can't  climb  all 
them  stairs/  she  answers  me. 

"Well,  that  afternoon  I  went  down  an*  hunted 
up  a  rusty  sleigh-bell  I'd  seen  in  the  basement,  an* 
I  rubbed  it  up  an'  tied  a  string  to  it,  an*  'long  in  the 


TOP   FLOOR    BACK  187 

evenin'  I  went  upstairs   an'  rapped  at  Mr.  Lone- 
way's  door. 

"'I  called,'  I  says,  'to  ask  after  your  wife,  if  I 
might.' 

"'If  you  might,'  he  says  after  me.  'I  thank  the 
Lord  you're  somebody  that  will.  Come  in,'  he  told 
me. 

"They  had  two  rooms.  In  one  he  was  cookin* 
somethin'  on  a  smelly  oil-stove.  In  the  other  was 
his  wife;  but  that  room  was  all  neat  an'  nice  — 
curtains  looped  back,  carpet  an'  all  that.  She  was 
half  up  on  pillows,  an'  she  had  a  black  waist  on, 
an'  her  hair  pushed  straight  back,  an'  she  was 
burnin'  up  with  the  fever. 

"Set  down  an'  talk  to  her,'  he  says  to  me,  'while 
I  get  the  dinner,  will  you  ?  I've  got  to  go  out  for 
the  milk.' 

"I  did  set  down,  feelin'  some  like  a  sawhorse  in 
church.  If  she  hadn't  been  so  durn  little,  seems 
though  I  could  'a'  talked  with  her,  but  I  ketched 
sight  of  her  hand  on  the  quilt,  an'  —  law !  it  wa'n't 
no  bigger'n  a  butternut.  She  done  the  best  thing 
she  could  do  an'  set  me  to  work. 

' '  Mr.  Bemus,'  she  says,  first  off  —  everybody 
else  called  me  Peleg  —  'Mr.  Bemus,'  she  says,  'I 
wonder  if  you'd  mind  takin'  an  old  newspaper  — 
there's  one  somewheres  around  —  an'  stuffin'  in 
the  cracks  of  this  window  an'  stop  its  rattlin'  ?' 


i88  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"I  laid  my  sleigh-bell  down  an'  done  as  she  says^ 
an*  while  I  fussed  with  the  window,  that  seems  though 
all  Printin'  House  Square  couldn't  stuff  up,  she 
talked  on,  chipper  as  a  squirrel,  all  about  the  buildin', 
an*  who  lived  where,  an'  how  many  kids  they  was, 
an'  wouldn't  it  be  nice  if  they  had  an  elevator  like 
the  model  tenement  we  was  payin'  rent  for,  an'  so  on. 
I'd  never  'a'  dreamt  she  was  sick  if  I  hadn't  looked 
'round  a  time  or  two  at  her  poor,  burnin'-up  face. 
Then  bime-by  he  brought  the  supper  in,  an'  when 
he  went  to  lift  her  up,  she  just  naturally  laid  back  an' 
fainted.  But  she  was  all  right  again  in  a  minute, 
brave  as  two,  an'  she  was  like  a  child  when  she 
see  what  he'd  brought  her  —  a  big  platter  for  a  tray, 
with  milk-toast  an'  an  apple  an'  five  cents'  worth 
o'  dates.  She  done  her  best  to  eat,  too,  and  praised 
him  up,  an'  the  poor  soul  hung  over  her,  watchin' 
every  mouthful,  feedin'  her,  coaxin'  her,  lookin' 
like  nothin'  more'n  a  boy  himself.  When  I  couldn't 
stand  it  no  longer,  I  took  an'  jingled  the  sleigh-bell. 

"I'm  a-goin','  I  says,  'to  hang  this  outside  the 
door  here,  an'  run  this  nice  long  string  through  the 
transom.  An'  to-morrow,'  I  says,  'when  you  want 
anything,  just  you  pull  the  string  a  time  or  two,  an' 
I'll  be  somewheres  around.' 

"She  clapped  her  hands,  her  eyes  shinin'. 

"'Oh,  goodeyT  she  says.  'Now  I  won't  be  alone. 
Ain't  it  nice,'  she  says,  'that  there  ain't  no  glass  in 


TOP   FLOOR    BACK  189 

the  transom  ?     If  we  lived  in  the  model  tenement, 
we  couldn't  do  that,'  she  says,  laughin'  some. 

"An*  that  young  fellow,  he  followed  me  to  the 
door  an'  just  naturally  shook  hands  with  me,  same's 
though  I'd  been  his  kind.  Then  he  followed  me  on 
out  into  the  hall. 

"'We  had  a  little  boy,'  he  says  to  me  low,  'an* 
it  died  four  months  ago  yesterday,  when  it  was  six 
days  old.  She  ain't  ever  been  well  since/  he  says, 
kind  of  as  if  he  wanted  to  tell  somebody.  But  I 
didn't  know  what  to  say,  an'  so  I  found  fault  with 
the  kerosene  lamp  in  the  hall,  an'  went  on  down. 

"Nex'  day  I  knew  the  doctor  come  again.  An' 
'way  'long  in  the  afternoon  I  was  a-tinkerin'  with 
the  stair  rail  when  I  heard  the  sleigh-bell  ring.  I 
run  up,  an'  she  was  settin'  up,  in  the  black  waist  — 
but  I  thought  her  eyes  was  shiney  with  somethin' 
that  wasn't  the  fever  —  sort  of  a  scared  excitement. 

"'Mr.  Bemus,'  she  says,  'I  want  you  to  do  some- 
thin'  for  me,'  she  says, 'an'  not  tell  anybody.  Will 
you  ? ' 

"'Why,  yes,'  I  says,  'I  will,  Mis'  Loneway,'  I 
says.  'What  is  it?'  I  ask'  her. 

'There's  a  baby  somewheres  downstairs,'  she 
says.  'I  hear  it  cryin'  sometimes.  An'  I  want 
you  to  get  it  an'  bring  it  up  here.' 

"That  was  a  queer  thing  to  ask,  because  kids 
isn't  soothin'  to  the  sick.  But  I  went  off  down- 


190  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

stairs  to  the  first  floor  front.  The  kid  she  meant 
belonged  to  the  Tomato  Ketchup  woman.  I  knew 
they  had  one  because  it  howled  different  times  an', 
I  judge,  pounded  its  head  on  the  floor  some  when 
it  was  maddest.  It  was  the  only  real  little  one  in 
the  buildin' — the  others  was  all  the  tonguey  age. 
I  told  what  I  wanted. 

"For  the  land!'  says  Tomato  Ketchup,  'I  never 
see  such  nerve.  Take  my  baby  into  a  sick  room  ? 
Not  if  I  know  it.  I  s'pose  you  just  come  out  o' 
there  ?  Well,  don't  you  stay  here,  bringin'  diseases. 
A  hospital's  the  true  place  fer  the  sick,'  she  says. 

"  I  went  back  to  Mis'  Loneway,  an'  I  guess  I  lied 
some.  I  said  the  kid  was  sick  —  had  the  croup, 
I  thought,  an'  she'd  hev  to  wait.  Her  face  fell, 
but  she  said  'all  right  an'  please  not  to  say  nothin',' 
an'  then  I  went  out  an'  done  my  best  to  borrow 
a  kid  for  her.  I  ask'  all  over  the  neighbourhood,  an' 
not  a  woman  but  looked  on  me  for  a  cradle  snatcher 
—  thought  I  wanted  to  abduct  her  child  away  from 
her.  Bime-by  I  even  told  one  woman  what  I  wanted 
it  for. 

"'My!'  she  says,  'if  she  ain't  got  one,  she's  got 
one  less  mouth  to  feed.  Tell  her  to  thank  her  stars.' 

"After  that  I  used  to  look  into  Mis'  Loneway's 
frequent.  The  women  on  the  same  floor  was  quite 
decent  to  her,  but  they  worked  all  day,  an'  mostly 
didn't  get  home  till  after  her  husband  did.  I 


TOP  FLOOR   BACK  191 

found  out  somethin'  about  him,  too.  He  was  clerk 
in  a  big  commission  house  'way  down-town,  an* 
his  salary,  as  near  as  I  could  make  out,  was  about 
what  mine  was,  an*  they  wa'n't  no  estimatin'  that 
by  the  cord  at  all.  But  I  never  heard  a  word  out'n 
him  about  their  not  bavin'  much.  He  kep'  on 
makin'  milk  toast  an'  bringin'  in  one  piece  o'  fruit 
at  a  time  an'  once  in  a  while  a  little  meat.  An'  all 
the  time  anybody  could  see  she  wa'n't  gettin'  no 
better.  I  knew  she  wa'n't  gettin'  enough  to  eat, 
an'  I  knew  he  knew  it,  too.  An'  one  night  the 
doctor  he  outs  with  the  truth. 

"Mr.  Loneway  an'  I  was  sittin'  in  the  kitchen 
while  the  doctor  was  in  the  other  room  with  her. 
I  went  there  evenin's  all  the  time  by  then  —  the 
young  fellow  seemed  to  like  to  hev  me.  We  was 
keepin'  warm  over  the  oil-stove  because  the  real 
stove  was  in  her  room,  an'  the  doctor  come  in  an' 
stood  over  him. 

"'My  lad,'  he  says  gentle,  'there  ain't  half  as 
much  use  o'  my  comin'  here  as  there  is  o'  her  gettin' 
strengthenin'  food.  She's  got  to  hev  beef  broth  — 
cer'als  —  fresh  this  an'  fresh  that'  —  he  went  on  to 
tell  him,  'an'  plenty  of  it,'  he  says.  'An'  if  we  can 
make  her  strength  hold  out,  I  think,'  he  wound  up, 
'that  we  can  save  her.  But  she's  gettin'  weaker 
every  day  for  lack  o'  food.  Can  you  do  anything 
more?'  he  ask'  him. 


I92  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"I  expected  to  see  young  Mr.  Loneway  go  all 
to  pieces  at  this,  because  I  knew  as  it  was  he  didn't 
ride  in  the  street-car,  he  was  pinchin'  so  to  pay  the 
doctor.  But  he  sorter  set  up  sudden  an*  squared 
his  shoulders,  an'  he  looked  up  an*  says :  — 

"'Yes!'  he  says.  'I've  been  thinkin'  that  to- 
night,' he  says.  'An'  I've  hed  a  way  to  some  good 
luck,  you  might  call  it  —  an'  now  I  guess  she  can 
hev  everything  she  wants,'  he  told  him;  an'  he 
laughed  some  when  he  said  it. 

"That  sort  o'  amazed  me.  I  hadn't  heard  him 
sayin'  anything  about  any  excruciatin'  luck,  an' 
his  face  hadn't  been  the  face  of  a  man  on  the  brink 
of  a  bonanza.  I  wondered  why  he  hadn't  told  her 
about  this  luck  o'  his,  but  I  kep'  quiet  an'  watched 
to  see  if  he  was  bluffin'. 

"I  was  cleanin'  the  walk  off  when  he  come  home 
nex'  night.  Sure  enough,  there  was  his  arms  laid 
full  o'  bundles.  An'  his  face  —  it  done  me  good 
to  see  it. 

"'Come  on  up  an'  help  get  dinner,'  he  yelled  out, 
like  a  kid,  an'  I  thought  I  actually  seen  him  smilin'. 

"Soon's  I  could  I  went  upstairs,  an'  they  wa'n't 
nothin*  that  man  hadn't  brought.  They  was  every- 
thing the  doctor  had  said,  an'  green  things,  an' 
a  whol'  basket  o'  fruit  an'  two  bottles  o'  port,  an' 
more  things  besides.  They  was  lots  o'  fixin's,  too, 
that  there  wa'n't  a  mite  o' .nourishment  in  —  for 


TOP   FLOOR   BACK  193 

he  wa'n't  no  more  practical  nor  medicinal'n  a  wood- 
tick.     But  I  knew  how, he  felt. 

"'Don't  tell  her,'  he  says.  'Don't  tell  her/ 
he  says  to  me,  hoppin'  'round  the  kitchen  like  a 
buzz-saw.  'I  want  to  surprise  her.' 

"You  can  bet  he  did,  too  —  if  you'll  overlook 
the  liberty.  When  he  was  all  ready,  he  made  me 
go  in  ahead. 

"'To-ot!'  says  I,  genial-like —  they  treated  me 
jus'  like  one  of  'em.  'To-ot!  Lookey-<3//' 

"He  set  the  big  white  platter  down  on  the  bed, 
an'  when  she  see  all  the  stuff,  —  white  grapes,  mind 
you,  an'  fresh  tomatoes,  an'  a  glass  for  the  wine,  — 
she  just  grabs  his  hand  an'  holds  it  up  to  her  throat, 
an'  says: — 

"'Jack!  Oh,  Jack!'  she  says,  —  she  called  him 
that  when  she  was  pleased,  — '  how  did  you  ?  How 
did  you?' 

"Never  you  mind,'  he  says,  kissin'  her  an'  lookin' 
as  though  he  was  goin'  to  bu'st  out  himself,  'never 
you  ask.  It's  time  I  had  some  luck,  ain't  it  ?  Like 
other  men  ?' 

"She  was  touchin'  things  here  an'  there,  liftin'  up 
the  grapes  an'  lookin'  at  'em  —  poor  little  soul  had 
lived  on  milk  toast  an'  dates  an'  a  apple  now  an' 
then  for  two  weeks  to  my  knowledge.  But  when  he 
said  that,  she  stopped  an'  looked  at  him,  scared. 

"'John!'  she  says,  'you  ain't — ' 
o 


I94  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"He  laughed  at  that. 

"'Gamblin'  ?'  he  says.  'No  —  never  you  fear.' 
I  had  thought  o'  that  myself,  only  I  didn't  quite 
see  when  he'd  had  the  chance  since  night  before 
when  the  doctor  told  him.  'It's  all  owin'  to  the 
office,'  he  says  to  her,  'an'  now  you  eat  —  lemme 
see  you  eat,  Linda,'  he  says,  an'  that  seemed  to  be 
food  enough  for  him.  He  didn't  half  touch  a  thing. 
'Eat  all  you  want,'  he  says,  'an',  Pefeg,  poke  up  the 
fire.  There's  half  a  ton  o'  coal  comin'  to-morrow. 
An'  we're  goin'  to  have  this  every  Jay,9  he  told 
her. 

"Land  o'  love!  how  happy  she  was!  She  made 
me  eat  some  grapes,  an'  she  sent  a  bunch  to  the 
woman  on  the  same  floor,  because  she'd  brought  her 
an  orange  six  weeks  before;  an'  then  she  begs  Mr. 
Loneway  to  get  an  extry  candle  out  of  the  top  dresser 
draw'.  An'  when  that  was  lit  up  she  whispers  to 
him,  and  he  goes  out  an'  fetches  from  somewheres 
a  guitar  with  more'n  half  the  strings  left  on;  an* 
she  set  up  an'  picked  away  on  'em,  an'  we  all  three 
sung,  though  I  can't  carry  a  tune  no  more'n  what 
I  can  carry  a  white  oak  tree  trunk. 

"'Oh,'  she  says,  'I'm  a-goin'  to  get  well  now. 
Oh,'  she  says,  'ain't  it  heaven  to  be  rich  again?' 

"No  —  you  can  say  she'd  ought  to  'a'  made  him 
tell  her  where  he  got  the  money.  But  she  trusted 
him,  an'  she'd  been  a-livin'  on  milk  toast  an'  dates 


TOP   FLOOR   BACK  195 

for  so  long  that  I  can  pretty  well  see  how  she  took 
it  all  as  what's-his-name  took  the  wild  honey,  with- 
out askin'  the  Lord  whose  make  it  was.  Besides, 
she  was  sick.  An*  milk  toast  an'  dates'd  reconcile 
me  to  'most  any  change  for  the  better. 

"It  got  so  then  that  I  went  upstairs  every  noon 
an'  fixed  up  her  lunch  for  her,  an'  one  day  she  done 
what  I'd  been  dreadin'.  'Mr.  Bemus,'  she  says, 
'that  baby  must  be  over  the  croup  now.  Won't 
you  —  won't  you  take  it  down  this  orange  an'  see 
if  you  can't  bring  it  up  here  awhile  ?' 

"  I  went  down,  but,  law !  —  where  was  the  use  ? 
The  Ketchup  woman  grabs  up  her  kid  an'  fair 
threw  the  orange  at  me.  'You  don't  know  what 
disease  you're  bringin'  in  here,'  she  says  —  she  had 
a  voice  like  them  gasoline  wood-cutters.  I  see 
she'd  took  to  heart  some  o'  the  model-tenement 
social-evenin'  lectures  on  bugs  an'  worms  in  diseases. 
I  carried  the  orange  out  and  give  it  to  a  kid  in  the 
ar'y,  so's  Mis'  Loneway'd  be  makin'  somebody 
some  pleasure,  anyhow.  An'  then  I  went  back 
upstairs  an'  told  her  the  kid  was  worse.  Seems 
the  croup  had  turned  into  cholery  infantum. 

"Why,'  she  says,  'I  mus'  send  it  down  somethin' 
nice  an'  hot  to-night,'  an'  so  she  did,  and  I  slips  it 
back  in  the  Loneway  kitchen  unbeknownst.  She 
wa'n't  so  very  medicinal,  either,  bless  her  heart ! 

'"Tell  me  about  that  baby/  she  says  to  me  one 


196  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

noon.  'What's  its  name?  Does  it  like  to  hev  its 
mother  love  it?'  she  ask  me. 

"  I  knew  the  truth  to  be  that  it  didn't  let  anybody 
do  anything  day  or  night  within  sight  or  sound  of 
it,  an'  it  looked  to  me  like  an  imp  o'  the  dark.  But 
I  fixed  up  a  tol'able  description,  an'  left  out  the 
freckles  an'  the  temper,  an'  told  her  it  was  fat  an* 
well  an'  a  boy.  That  seemed  to  satisfy  her.  Its 
name,  though,  sort  o'  stumped  me.  The  Tomato 
Ketchup  called  it  mostly  'you-come-back-here-you- 
little-ape.'  I  heard  that  every  day.  So  I  said,  just 
to  piece  out  my  information,  that  I  thought  its 
name  might  be  April.  That  seemed  to  take  her 
fancy,  an'  after  that  she  was  always  askin'  me  how 
little  April  was  —  but  not  when  Mr.  Loneway  was 
in  hearin'.  I  see  well  enough  she  didn't  want  he 
should  know  that  she  was  grievin'  none. 

"All  the  time  kep'  comin',  every  night,  another 
armful  o'  good  things.  Land !  that  man  he  bought 
everything.  Seems  though  he  couldn't  buy  enough. 
Every  night  the  big  platter  was  heaped  up  an'  runnin' 
over  with  everything  under  the  sun,  an'  she  was  like 
another  girl.  I  s'pose  the  things  give  her  strength, 
but  I  reck'n  the  cheer  helped  most.  She  had  the 
surprise  to  look  forward  to  all  day,  an'  there  was 
plenty  o'  light,  evenin's;  an'  the  stove,  that  was 
drove  red-hot.  The  doctor  kep'  sayin'  she  was  bet- 
ter, too,  an'  everything  seemed  lookin'  right  up. 


TOP   FLOOR   BACK  197 

"Seems  queer  I  didn't  suspect  from  the  first 
something  was  wrong.  Seems  though  I  ought  to 
V  known  money  didn't  grow  out  o'  green  wood 
the  way  he  was  pretendin'.  It  wasn't  two  weeks 
before  he  takes  me  down  to  the  basement  one  night 
when  he  comes  home,  an'  he  owns  up. 

"Peleg,'  he  says,  'I've  got  to  tell  somebody,  an* 
God  knows  maybe  it'll  be  you  that'll  hev  to  tell 
her.  I've  stole  fifty-four  dollars  out  o'  the  tray  in 
the  retail  department,'  says  he,  'an'  to-day  they 
found  me  out.  They  wasn't  no  fuss  made.  Lovett, 
the  assistant  cashier,  is  the  only  one  that  knows. 
He  took  me  aside  quiet,'  Mr.  Loneway  says,  'an'  I 
made  a  clean  breast.  I  said  what  I  took  it  for. 
He's  a  married  man  himself,  an'  he  told  me  if  I'd 
make  it  up  in  three  days,  he'd  fix  it  so's  nobody 
should  know.  The  cashier's  off  for  a  week.  In 
three  days  he's  comin'  back.  But  they  might  as 
well  ask  me  to  make  up  fifty-four  hundred.  I've 
got  enough  to  keep  on  these  three  days  so's  she  won't 
know/  he  says,  'an'  after  that — ' 

"  He  hunched  out  hrs  arms,  an'  I'll  never  forget  his 
face. 

"I  says,  'Mr.  Loneway,  sir,'  I  says,  'chuck  it. 
Tell  her  the  whole  thing  an'  give  'em  back  what 
you  got  left,  an'  do  your  best.' 

"He  turned  on  me  like  a  crazy  man. 

"'Don't  talk  to   me   like   that,'   he   says    fierce. 


198  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

'You  don't  know  what  you're  sayinY  he  says. 
'No  man  does  till  he  has  this  happen  to  him.  The 
judge  on  the  bench  that'll  send  me  to  jail  for  it, 
he  won't  know  what  he's  judgin'.  My  God  — 
my  God!9  he  says,  leanin'  up  against  the  door  o' 
the  furnace  room,  'to  see  her  sick  like  this  —  an' 
nee  din  things  —  when  she  give  herself  to  me  to  take 
care  of!' 

"Course  there  wa'n't  no  talkin'  to  him.  An' 
the  nex'  night  an'  the  nex'  he  come  home  bringin' 
her  truck  just  the  same.  Once  he  even  hed  her  a 
bunch  o'  pinks.  Seems  though  he  was  doin'  the 
worst  he  could. 

"The  pinks  come  at  the  end  of  the  second  day 
of  the  three  days  the  assistant  cashier  had  give  him 
to  pay  the  money  back  in.  An'  two  things  happened 
that  night.  I  was  in  the  kitchen  helpin'  him  wash 
up  the  dishes  while  the  doctor  was  in  the  room  with 
Mis'  Loneway.  An'  when  the  doctor  come  out  o' 
there  into  the  kitchen,  he  shuts  the  door.  I  see  right 
off  somethin'  was  the  matter.  He  took  Mr.  Loneway 
off  to  the  back  window,  an'  I  rattled  'round  with 
the  dishes  an'  took  on  not  to  notice.  Up  until  when 
the  doctor  goes  out  —  an'  then  I  felt  Mr.  Loneway's 
grip  on  my  arm.  I  looked  at  him,  an'  I  knew. 
She  wasn't  goin'  to  get  well.  He  just  lopped  down 
on  the  chair  like  so  much  sawdust,  an'  put  his  face 
down  in  his  arm,  the  way  a  schoolboy  does  —  an* 


TOP   FLOOR   BACK  199 

I  swan  he  wa'n't  much  more'n  a  schoolboy,  either. 
I  s'pose  if  ever  hell  is  in  a  man's  heart,  —  an'  we 
mostly  all  see  it  there  sometime,  even  if  we  don't 
feel  it,  —  why,  there  was  hell  in  his  then. 

"All  of  a  sudden  there  was  a  rap  on  the  hall  door. 
He  never  moved,  an'  so  I  went.  I  whistled,  I 
rec'lect,  so's  she  shouldn't  suspect  nothin'  from  our 
not  goin'  in  where  she  was  right  off.  An'  a  mes- 
senger-boy was  out  there  in  the  passage  with  a  letter 
for  Mr.  Loneway. 

"  I  took  it  in  to  him.  He  turned  himself  around  an' 
opened  it,  though  I  don't  believe  he  knew  half  what 
he  was  doin'.  An'  what  do  you  guess  come  tumblin' 
out  o'  that  envelope  ?  Fifty-four  dollars  in  bills. 
Not  a  word  with  'em. 

"Then  he  broke  down.  'It's  Lovett/  he  says, 
'it's  Lovett's  done  this  —  the  assistant  cashier. 
Maybe  he's  told  some  o'  the  other  fellows  at  the 
desks  next,  an'  they  helped.  They  knew  about  her 
bein'  sick.  An'  they  can't  none  of  'em  afford  it/ 
he  says,  an'  that  seemed  to  cut  him  up  worst  of  all. 
Til  give  it  back  to  him/  he  says  resolute.  'I  can't 
take  it  from  'em,  Peleg.' 

"I  says,  'Hush  up,  Mr.  Loneway,  sir/  I  says. 
'You  got  to  think  o'  her.  Take  it/  I  told  him,  'an' 
thank  God  it  ain't  as  bad  as  it  was.  Who  knows/ 
I  ask'  him,  'but  what  the  doctor  might  turn  out 
wrong  ? ' 


200  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"Pretty  soon  I  got  him  to  pull  himself  together 
some,  an*  I  shoved  him  into  the  other  room,  an* 
I  went  with  him,  an*  talked  on  like  an  idiot  so  no- 
body'd  suspect  —  I  didn't  hev  no  idea  what. 

"She  was  settin'  up  in  the  same  black  waist, 
with  a  newspaper  hung  acrost  the  head  o'  the  iron 
bed  to  keep  the  draught  out.  All  of  a  sudden, — 

"'John!'  says  she. 

"He  went  close  by  the  bed. 

"'Is  everything  goin'  on  good?'  she  ask*  him. 

"'Everything,'  he  told  her  right  off. 
"Splendid,  John  ?'  she  ask'  him,  pullin*  his  hand 
up  by  her  cheek. 

"Splendid,  Linda/  he  says  after  her. 

!'We  got  a  little  money  ahead?'  she  goes  on. 

"Bless  me,  if  he  didn't  do  just  what  I  had  time 
to  be  afraid  of.  He  hauls  out  them  fifty-four  dollars 
an'  showed  her. 

"She  claps  her  hands  like  a  child. 

"'Oh,  goodey!'  she  says;  'I'm  so  glad.  Fm 
so  glad.  Now  I  can  tell  you,'  she  says  to  him. 

"He  took  her  in  his  arms  an'  kneeled  down  by 
the  bed,  an'  I  tried  to  slip  out,  but  she  called  me 
back.  So  I  stayed,  like  an'  axe  in  the  parlour. 

'John,'  she  says  to  him,  'do  you  know  what 
Aunt  Nita  told  me  before  I  was  married?  "You 
must  always  look  the  prettiest  you  know  how," 
Aunt  Nita  says,'  she  tells  him,  '"for  your  husband. 


TOP  FLOOR   BACK  201 

Because  you  must  always  be  prettier  for  him  than 
anybody  else  is."  An',  oh,  dearest,'  she  says,  'you 
know  I'd  'a'  looked  my  best  for  you  if  I  could  — 
but  I  never  had  —  an'  it  wasn't  your  fault!'  she 
cries  out,  'but  things  didn't  go  right.  It  wasn't 
anybody's  fault.  Only  —  I  wanted  to  look  nice 
for  you.  An'  since  I've  been  sick,'  she  says,  'it's 
made  me  wretched,  wretched  to  think  I  didn't  hev 
nothin'  to  put  on  but  this  black  waist  —  this  homely 
old  black  waist.  You  never  liked  me  to  wear  black,' 
I  rec'lect  she  says  to  him,  'an'  it  killed  me  to  think 

—  if  anything  should  happen — you'd  be  rememberin' 
me  like  this.     You  think  you'd  remember  me  the 
way  I  was  when  I  was  well  —  but  you  wouldn't,' 
she  says  earnest;    'people  never,  never  do.      You'd 
remember    me    here    like    I    look    now.     Oh  —  an' 
so   I   thought  —  if  there  was  ever  so  little  money 
we  could   spare  —  won't  you  get  me   somethin'  — 
somethin'    so's    you    could    remember    me    better  ? 
Somethin'  to  wear  these  few  days,'  she  says. 

"He  breaks  down  then  an'  cries,  with  his  face  in 
her  pillow. 

"'Don't  —  why,  don't !'  she  says  to  him;  'if  there 
wasn't  any  money,  you  might  cry  —  only  then  I 
wouldn't  never  hev  told  you.  But  now  —  to-morrow 

—  you  can  go  an'  buy  me   a  little  dressing-sacque 

—  the    kind  they  have  in  the  windows  on  Broad- 
way.    Oh,  Jack!9  she  says,  'is  it  wicked  an'  foolish 


202  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

for  me  to  want  you  to  remember  me  as  nice  as  you 
can  ?  It  ain't  —  it  ain't!9  she  says. 

"Then  I  give  out.  I  felt  like  a  handful  o'  wet 
sawdust  that's  been  squeezed.  I  slid  out  an'  down- 
stairs, an'  I  guess  I  chopped  wood  near  all  night. 
The  Tomato  Ketchup's  husband  he  pounded  the 
floor  for  me  to  shut  up,  an'  I  told  him  —  though 
I  never  was  what  you  might  call  a  impudent  janitor 
—  that  if  he  thought  he  could  chop  it  up  any  more 
soft,  he'd  better  engage  in  it.  But  then  the  kid 
woke  up,  too,  an'  yelled  some,  an'  I's  afraid  she'd 
hear  it  an'  remember,  an'  so  I  quit. 

"Nex'  mornin'  I  laid  for  Mr.  Loneway  in  the  hall. 

"Sir,'  I  says  to  him  when  he  come  down  to  go 
out,  'you  won't  do  nothin'  foolish?'  I  ask'  him. 

"'Mind  your  business,'  he  says,  his  face  like 
a  patch  o'  poplar  ashes. 

"I  was  in  an'  out  o'  their  flat  all  day,  an'  I  could 
see't  Mis'  Loneway  she's  happy  as  a  lark.  But 
I  knew  pretty  well  what  was  comin'.  Mind  you, 
this  was  the  third  day. 

"That  night  I  hed  things  goin'  in  the  kitchen  an' 
the  kettle  on,  an*  I's  hesitatin'  whether  to  put  two 
eggs  in  the  omelet  or  three,  when  he  comes  home. 
He  laid  a  eternal  lot  o'  stuff  on  the  kitchen  table, 
without  one  word,  an'  went  in  where  she  was.  I 
heard  paper  rustlin',  an'  then  I  heard  her  voice  — 
an'  it  wasn't  no  cryin',  lemme  say.  An'  so  I  says 


TOP   FLOOR   BACK  203 

to  myself,  'Well,'  I  says,  'she  might  as  well  hev  a 
four-egg  omelet,  because  it'll  be  the  last.'  I  knew 
if  they's  to  arrest  him  she  wouldn't  never  live  the 
day  out.  So  I  goes  on  with  the  omelet,  an'  when 
he  come  out  where  I  was,  I  just  told  him  if  he'd 
cut  open  the  grapefruit  I  hed  ever'thing  else  ready. 
An'  then  he  quit  lookin'  defiant,  an'  he  calmed 
down  some;  an'  pretty  soon  we  took  in  the  dinner. 

"She  was  sittin'  up  in  front  of  her  two  pillows, 
pretty  as  a  picture.  An'  she  was  in  one  o'  the  things 
I  ain't  ever  see  outside  a  store  window.  Lord ! 
it  was  all  the  colour  o'  roses,  with  craped-up  stuff 
like  the  bark  on  a  tree,  an'  rows  an'  rows  o'  lace, 
an'  long,  flappy  ribbon.  She  was  allus  pretty,  but 
she  looked  like  an  angel  in  that.  An'  I  says  to 
myself  then,  I  says :  '  If  a  woman  knows  she  looks 
like  that  in  them  things,  an'  if  she  loves  somebody 
an',  livin'  or  dead,  wants  to  look  like  that  for  him,  I 
want  to  know  who's  to  blame  her  ?  I  ain't  —  Peleg 
Bemus,  he  ain't.'  Mis'  Loneway  was  as  pretty 
as  I  ever  see,  not  barrin'  the  stage.  An'  she  was 
laughin',  an'  her  cheeks  was  pink-like,  an'  she 
says,  — 

"'Oh,  Mr.  Bemus,'  she  says,  'I  feel  like  a  queen/ 
she  says,  'an'  you  must  stay  for  dinner.' 

"I  never  seen  Mr.  Loneway  gayer.  He  was  full 
o'  fun  an'  funny  sayin's,  an'  his  face  had  even  lost  its 
chalky  look  an'  he'd  got  some  colour,  an'  he  laughed 


204  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

with  her  an'  he  made  love  to  her  —  durned  if  it 
wasn't  enough  to  keep  a  woman  out  o'  the  grave  to 
be  worshipped  the  way  that  man  worshipped  her. 
An'  when  she  ask'  for  the  guitar,  I  carried  out  the 
platter,  an'  I  stayed  an'  straightened  things  some 
in  the  kitchen.  An'  all  the  while  I  could  hear  'em 
singin'  soft  an'  laughin'  together  .  .  .  an'  all  the 
while  I  knew  what  was  double  sure  to  come. 

"Well,  in  about  an  hour  it  did  come.  I  was 
waitin'  for  it.  Fact,  I  had  filled  up  the  coffee-pot 
expectin'  it.  AnJ  when  I  heard  the  men  comin' 
up  the  stairs  I  takes  the  coffee  an'  what  rolls  there 
was  left  an'  I  meets  'em  in  the  hall,  on  the  landing. 
They  was  two  of  'em  —  constables,  or  somethin'  — 
with  a  warrant  for  his  arrest. 

"Gentlemen,'  says  I,  openin'  the  coffee-pot 
careless  so's  the  smell  could  get  out  an'  circ'late 
—  *  gentlemen,  he's  up  there  in  that  room.  There's 
only  these  one  stairs,  an'  the  only  manhole's  right 
here  over  your  heads,  so's  you  can  watch  that. 
You  rec'lect  that  there  ain't  a  roof  on  that  side  o' 
the  house.  Now,  I'm  a  lonely  beggar,  an'  I  wish't 
you'd  let  me  invite  you  to  a  cup  o'  hot  coffee  an' 
a  hot  buttered  roll  or  two,  right  over  there  in  that 
hall  window.  You  can  keep  your  eye  peeled  tow- 
ards that  door  all  the  while,'  I  reminds  'em. 

"Well,  it  was  a  bitter  night,  an'  them  two  was 
flesh  an'  blood.  They  'lowed  that  if  he  hadn't 


TOP   FLOOR   BACK  205 

been  there  they'd  V  had  to  wait  for  him,  anyway, 
so  they  finally  set  down.  An'  I  doled  'em  out  the 
coffee.  I  'lowed  I  could  keep  'em  an  hour  if  I 
knew  myself.  Nobody  could  'a'  done  any  differ- 
ent, with  her  an'  him  settin'  up  there  singin'  an'  no 
manner  o'  doubt  but  what  it  was  for  the  last 
time. 

"I'd  be'n  'round  consid'able  in  my  time  an'  I 
knew  quite  a  batch  o'  stories.  I  let  'em  have  'em 
all,  an'  poured  the  coffee  down  'em.  They  was 
willin'  enough  —  it  wa'n't  cold  in  the  halls  to  what 
it  was  outside,  an'  the  coffee  was  boilin'  hot.  An' 
if  anybody  wants  to  blame  me,  they'd  hev  to  see  her 
first,  all  fluffed  up  same  as  a  kitten  in  that  pink 
jacket-thing,  afore  I'd  give  'em  a  word  o'  hearin'. 

"  In  the  midst  of  it  all  I  heard  the  Tomato  Ketchup's 
kid  yell.  I  remembered  that  this'd  be  my  last 
chanst  fer  her  to  see  the  kid  when  she  could  get  any 
happiness  out  of  it.  I  didn't  think  twice  —  I  just 
filled  up  the  cups  o'  them  two,  an'  then  I  sails  down- 
stairs, two  at  a  time,  an'  opened  the  door  o'  first 
floor  front  without  rappin'.  The  kid  was  there 
in  its  little  nightgown,  howlin'  fer  fair  because  it 
had  be'n  left  alone  with  its  boy  brother.  The 
Tomato  Ketchup  an'  her  husband  was  to  a  wake. 
I  picked  up  the  kid,  rolled  it  in  a  blanket,  grabbed 
brother  by  the  arm,  an'  started  up  the  stairs. 

"'Is  the  house  on  f-f-fire  ?'  says  the  boy  brother. 


206  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

'Yes,'  says  I,  'it  is.  An'  we're  goin'  upstairs 
to  hunt  up  a  fire-escape,'  I  told  him. 

"At  the  top  o'  the  stairs  I  sets  him  down  on  the 
floor  an'  promises  him  an  orange,  an'  then  I  opens 
the  door,  with  the  kid  on  my  arm.  It  had  stopped 
yellin'  by  then,  an'  it  was  settin'  up  straight,  with 
its  eyes  all  round  an'  its  cheeks  all  pinked-up  with 
havin'  just  woke  up,  an'  it  looked  awful  cute,  in 
spite  of  its  mother.  Mis'  Loneway  was  leanin'  back, 
laughin',  an'  tellin'  him  what  they  was  goin'  to  do 
the  minute  she  got  well ;  but  when  she  see  the  baby 
she  drops  her  husband's  hand  and  sorter  screams 
out,  weak,  an'  holds  out  her  arms.  Mr.  Loneway, 
he  hardly  heard  me  go  in,  I  reckon  —  leastwise, 
he  looks  at  me  clean  through  me  without  seein'  I  was 
there.  An'  she  hugs  the  kiddie  up  in  her  arms  an' 
looks  at  me  over  the  top  of  its  head  as  much  as  to 
say  she  understood  an'  thanked  me. 

"'Its  ma  is  went  off,'  I  told  'em  apologetic,  'an' 
I  thought  maybe  you'd  look  after  it  awhile,'  I  told 
'em. 

"Then  I  went  out  an'  put  oranges  all  around  the 
boy  brother  on  the  hall  floor,  an'  I  hustled  back 
downstairs. 

"'Gentlemen,'  says  I,  brisk,  'I've  got  two  dollars 
too  much,'  says  I  —  an'  I  reck'n  the  cracks  in  them 
walls  must  'a'  winked  at  the  notion.  'What  do  you 
say  to  a  game  o'  dice  on  the  bread-plate  ?'  I  ask'  'em. 


TOP   FLOOR   BACK  207 

"Well,  one  way  an'  another  I  kep'  them  two 
there  for  two  hours.  An'  then,  when  the  game  was 
out,  I  knew  I  couldn't  do  nothin'  else.  So  I  stood 
up  an'  told  'em  I'd  go  up  an'  let  Mr.  Loneway  know 
they  was  there  —  along  o'  his  wife  bein'  sick  an* 
hadn't  ought  to  be  scared. 

"I  started  up  the  stairs,  feelin'  like  lead.  Little 
more'n  halfway  up  I  heard  a  little  noise.  I  looked 
up,  an'  I  see  the  boy  brother  a-comin',  leakin'  orange- 
peel,  with  the  kid  slung  over  his  shoulder,  sleepin'. 
I  looked  on  past  him,  an'  the  door  o'  Mr.  Loneway's 
sittin'  room  was  open,  an'  I  see  Mr.  Loneway  standin' 
in  the  middle  o'  the  floor.  I  must  'a'  stopped  still, 
because  something  stumbled  up  against  me  from 
the  back,  an'  the  two  constables  was  there,  comin' 
close  behind  me.  I  could  hear  one  of  'em  breathin'. 

"Then  I  went  on  up,  an'  somehow  I  knew  there 
wasn't  nothin'  more  to  wait  for.  When  we  got  to 
the  top  I  see  inside  the  room,  an'  she  was  layin' 
back  on  her  pillow,  all  still  an'  quiet.  An'  the  little 
new  pink  jacket  never  moved  nor  stirred,  for  there 
wa'n't  no  breath. 

"Mr.  Loneway,  he  come  acrost  the  floor  towards 


us. 

a  ( 


Come  in,'  he  says.     'Come  right  in/  he  told  us 
—  an*  I  see  him  smilin'  some." 


XIV 

AN    EPILOGUE 

WHEN  Peleg  had  gone  back  to  the  woodshed, 
Calliope  slipped  away  too.  I  sat  beside  the  fire, 
listening  to  the  fine,  measured  fall  of  Peleg' s  axe 
—  so  much  more  vital  with  the  spirit  of  music  than 
his  flute;  looking  at  Calliope's  brown  earthen  baking 
dishes  —  so  much  purer  in  line  than  the  village 
bric-a-brac;  thinking  of  Peleg's  story  and  of  the 
life  that  beat  within  it  as  life  does  not  beat  in  the 
unaided  letter  of  the  law.  But  chiefly  I  thought 
of  Linda  Loneway.  Linda  Loneway.  I  made 
a  picture  of  her  name. 

So,  Calliope  having  come  from  above  stairs  where 
I  had  heard  her  moving  about  as  if  in  some  search, 
I  think  that  I  recognized,  even  before  I  lifted  my 
eyes  to  it,  the  photograph  which  she  gave  me.  It 
was  as  if  the  name  had  heard  me,  and  had  come. 

"  It's  Linda,"  Calliope  said.  "  It's  Linda  Proudfit. 
An*  I'm  certain,  certain  sure  it's  the  Linda  that 
Peleg  knew." 

"Surely  not,  Calliope,"  I  said  —  obedient  to  some 
law. 

208 


AN   EPILOGUE  209 

Calliope  nodded,  with  closed  eyes,  in  simple 
certainty. 

"I  know  it  was  her  that  Peleg  meant  about," 
she  said.  "  I  thought  of  it  first  when  he  said  about 
her  looks  —  an'  her  husband  a  clerk  —  an'  he  said 
he  called  her  Linda.  An'  then  when  he  got  to 
where  she  mentioned  Aunt  Nita  —  that's  what  her  an' 
Clementina  always  calls  Mis'  Ordway,  though  she 
ain't  by  rights  —  oh,  it  is  —  it  is.  ... " 

Calliope  sat  down  on  the  floor  before  me,  cherishing 
the  picture.  And  all  natural  doubts  of  the  possi- 
bility, all  apparent  denial  in  the  real  name  of  Linda 
Proudfit's  poor  young  husband  were  for  us  both 
presently  overborne  by  something  which  seemed 
viewlessly  witnessing  to  the  truth. 

"But  little  Linda,"  Calliope  said,  "to  think  o' 
her.  To  think  o'  her  —  like  Peleg  said.  Why,  I 
hardly  ever  see  her  excep'  in  all  silk,  or  imported 
kinds.  None  of  us  did.  I  hardly  ever  see  her  walk 
—  it  was  horses  and  carriages  and  dance  in  a  ball- 
room till  I  wonder  she  remembered  how  to  walk  at  all. 
Everything  with  her  was  cut  good,  an'  kid,  an'  hand- 
work, an'  like  that  —  the  same  way  the  Proudfits  is 
now.  But  yet  she  wasn't  a  bit  like  Mis'  Proudfit  an* 
Clementina.  They're  both  sweet  an'  rule-lovin'  an* 
ladies  born,  but-  Calliope  hesitated,  "they's 
somethin'  they  ain't.  An'  Linda  was." 

Calliope  looked  about  the  room,  seeking  a  way  to 


aio  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

tell  me.  And  her  eyes  fell  on  the  flame  on  her  cook- 
ing-stove hearth. 

"Linda  had  a  little  somethin'  in  her  that  lit  her 
up,"  she  said.  "She  didn't  say  much  of  anything 
that  other  folks  don't  say,  but  somehow  she  meant 
the  words  farther  in.  In  where  the  light  was,  an* 
words  mean  different  an'  better.  I  use'  to  think  I 
didn't  believe  that  what  she  saw  or  heard  or  read 
was  exactly  like  what  her  mother  an'  Clementina  an* 
most  folks  see  an'  hear  an'  read.  Somehow,  she  got 
the  inside  out  o'  things,  an'  drew  it  in  like  breathin', 
an'  lit  it  up,  an'  lived  it  more.  I  donno's  you  know 
what  I'm  talkin'  about.  But  Mis'  Proudfit  an* 
Clementina  don't  do  that  way.  They're  dear  an' 
good  an'  generous,  an'  lots  gentler  than  they  was 
before  Linda  left  'em  —  an'  yet  they  just  wear 
things'  an'  invite  folks  in  an'  see  Europe  an'  keep 
up  their  French  an'  serve  God,  an'  never  get  any  of 
it  rill  lit  up.  But  Linda,  she  knew .  An'  she  use'  to 
be  lonesome.  I  know  she  did  —  I  know  she  did. 

"I  use'  to  look  at  her  an*  wish  an'  wish  I  wa'n't 
who  I  am,  so's  I  could  a'  let  her  know  I  knew  too.  I 
use'  to  go  to  mend  her  lace  an'  sell  orris  root  to  her 
—  an'  Madame  Proudfit  an'  Clementina  would  be 
there,  buyin'  an'  livin'  on  the  outside,  judicious  an* 
refined  an'  rill  right  about  everything;  but  when 
Linda  come  in,  she  sort  o'  reached  somewheres,  deep, 
or  up,  or  out,  or  like  that,  an'  got  somethin'  that 


AN  EPILOGUE  211 

meant  it  all  instead  o'  gnawin'  its  way  through  words. 
It  was  like  other  folks  was  the  recipe  an'  Linda  was 
the  rill  dish.  They  was  the  way  to  be,  but  she  was 
the  one  that  was. 

"Well,  then  one  year,  when  she  come  home  from 
off  to  school,  this  young  clerk  followed  her.  I  only  see 
'em  together  once  —  he  only  stayed  a  day  an'  had  his 
terrible  time  with  Jason  Proudfit  an'  everybody  knew 
it  —  but  even  with  seein'  'em  that  once,  I  knew  about 
him.  I  don't  care  who  he  was  or  what  he  was  worth 

—  he  was  lit  up  too.     I  donno  why  he  was  a  clerk  nor 
anything  of  him  —  excep'   that  the   lit   kind   ain't 
always  the   money-makers  —  but  he   could   talk  to 
her  her  way.     An'  when  I  see  the  four  of  'em  drive 
up  in  front  of  the  post-office  the  day  he  come,  Mis' 
Proudfit  an'  Clementina  talkin'  all  soft  an'  interested 
an'  regular  about  the  foreign  postage  stamps  they 
was  buyin',  an'   Linda   an'   him   sittin'   there  with 
foreign  lands  fair  livin'  in  their  eyes  —  I  knew  how 
it  would  be.     An'  so  it  was.     They  went  off,  Linda 
with  only  the  clothes  she  was  wearin'  an'  none  of  her 
stone  rings  or  like  that  with  her.     An'  see  what  it 
all  done  —  see  what  it   done.     Jason   Proudfit,  he 
wouldn't  forgive  'em  nor  wouldn't  hear  a  word  from 
'em,  though  they  say  Mis'  Linda  wrote,  at  first,  an' 
more  than  once.     An'  then  when  he  died  two  years 
or  so  afterwards,  an'  Mis'  Proudfit  tried  everywhere 

—  they  wa'n't  no  trace.     An'  no  wonder,  with  a  dif- 


212  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

fer'nt  name  so's  nobody  should  find  out  how  poor 
they  was — an*  death — an'  like  enough  prison.  .  .  ." 

Calliope  stood  up,  and  in  the  pause  Peleg's  axe 
went  rhythmically  on. 

"I'm  goin'  to  be  sure,"  she  said.  "I  hate  to  — 
but  o'  course  I've  got  to  be  rill  certain,  in  words." 

She  went  out  to  the  shed,  taking  with  her  the  pho- 
tograph, and  closed  the  door.  Peleg's  axe  ceased. 
And  when  she  came  back,  she  said  nothing  at  all  for 
a  little,  and  the  axe  did  not  go  on. 

"We  mustn't  tell  Mis'  Proudfit  —  yet,"  she  put  it, 
presently,  "not  till  we  can  think.     I  donno's  we  ever 
can  tell  her.     The  dyin'  -  -  an'  the  disgrace  —  an* 
the  other  name  —  an'  the  hurt  about  Linda's  needin 
things  .  .  .  Peleg  thinks  not  tell  her,  too." 

"At  least,"  I  said,  "we  can  wait,  for  a  little. 
Until  they  come  home." 

I  listened  while,  her  task  long  disregarded,  Cal- 
liope fitted  together  the  dates  and  the  meagre  facts 
she  knew,  and  made  the  sad  tally  complete.  Then 
she  laid  the  picture  by  and  stood  staring  at  the  cook- 
ing-range flame. 

"It  ain't  enough,"  she  said,  "benV  —  lit  up  — 
ain't  enough  for  folks,  is  it  ?  Not  without  they're 
some  made  out  o'  iron,  too,  to  hold  it  —  like  stoves. 
An'  yet  — " 

She  looked  at  me  with  one  of  her  infrequent,  pas- 
sionate doublings  in  her  eyes. 


AN   EPILOGUE  213 

" —  if  Mis'  Proudfit  an'  Clementina  had  just  of 
been  lit  too,"  she  said,  "mebbe  - 

She  got  no  farther,  though  I  think  it  was  not  the 
opening  of  the  door  by  Peleg  Bemus  that  interrupted 
her.  Peleg  did  not  come  in.  He  said  something  of 
the  snow  on  his  shoes,  and  spoke  through  the  door's 
opening. 

"  I'm  a-goin  to  quit  work  for  to-day,  Mis'  Marsh," 
he  told  her.  "  Seems  like  I'm  too  dead  tired  to  chop." 


XV 

THE  TEA   PARTY 

As  spring  came  on,  and  I  found  myself  fairly  iden- 
tified with  the  life  of  Friendship,  —  or,  at  any  rate, 
"more  one  of  us,"  as  they  said,  —  I  suggested  to 
Calliope  something  which  had  been  for  some  time 
pleasantly  in  my  mind:  might  I,  I  asked  one  day, 
give  a  tea  for  her  ? 

"A  tea!"  she  repeated.  "For  me?  You  know 
they  give  me  a  benefit  once  in  the  basement  of  the 
Court  House.  But  a  private  tea,  for  me  ?" 

And  when  she  understood  that  this  was  what  I 
meant, 

"Oh,"  she  said  earnestly,  "I'd  be  so  glad  to  come. 
An'  you  an'  I  can  know  the  tea  is  for  me  —  if  you 
rilly  mean  it  —  but  it  won't  do  to  say  it  so'd  it'd  get 
out  around.  Oh,  no,  it  won't.  Not  one  o'  the  rest'll 
come  near  if  you  give  it  for  me  —  nor  if  you  give  it 
for  anybody.  Mis'  Proudfit,  now,  she  tried  to  give  a 
noon  lunch  on  St.  Patrick's  day  for  Mis'  Postmaster 
Sykes,  an'  the  folks  she  ask'  to  it  got  together  an'  sent 

2X4 


THE  TEA   PARTY  415 

in  their  regrets.  'We're  just  as  good  as  Mis'  Post- 
master Sykes,'  they  give  out  to  everybody,  'an*  we 
don't  bow  down  to  her  like  that/  So  Mis'  Proudfit 
she  calls  it  a  Shamrock  Party  an'  give  it  a  day  later. 
An'  every  one  of  'em  went.  It  won't  do  to  say  it's 
for  me." 

So  I  contented  myself  with  planning  to  seat  Cal- 
liope at  the  foot  of  my  table,  and  I  found  a  kind  of 
happiness  in  her  child-like  content,  though  only  we 
two  knew  that  the  occasion  would  do  her  honour.  If 
Delia  had  been  available  we  would  have  told  her, 
but  Delia  was  still  in  Europe,  and  would  not  return 
until  June. 

Calliope  was  quite  radiant  when,  on  the  afternoon 
of  the  tea,  she  arrived  in  advance  of  the  others.  She 
was  wearing  her  best  gray  henrietta,  and  I  noted  that 
she  had  changed  her  cameo  ring  from  her  first  to  her 
third  finger.  ("First-finger  rings  seem  to  me  more 
everyday,"  she  had  once  said  to  me,  "but  third- 
finger  I  always  think  looks  real  dressy/')  She  was 
carrying  a  small  parcel. 

"You  didn't  ask  to  borrow  anything,"  she  said 
shyly;  "I  didn't  know  how  you'd  feel  about  that,  a 
stranger  so.  An'  we  all  got  together  —  your  com- 
pany, you  know  —  an'  found  out  you  hadn't  bor- 
rowed anything  from  any  of  us,  an'  we  thought  maybe 
you  hesitated.  So  we  made  up  I  should  bring  my 
spoons.  They  was  mother's,  an'  they're  thin  as 


2i6  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

weddin'  rings  —  an'  solid.  Any  time  you  want  to 
give  a  company  you're  welcome  to  'em." 

When  I  had  laid  the  delicate  old  silver  in  its  place, 
I  found  Calliope  standing  in  the  middle  of  my 
living-room,  looking  frankly  about  on  my  simple 
furnishings,  her  eyes  lingering  here  and  there  almost 
lovingly. 

"  Bein'  in  your  house,"  she  said,  "  is  like  bein'  some- 
wheres  else.  I  don't  know  if  you  know  what  I  mean  ? 
Most  o'  the  time  I'm  where  I  belong  —  just  common. 
But  now  an'  then  —  like  a  holiday  when  we're  dressed 
up  an'  sittin'  'round  —  I  feel  differ'nt  an'  special.  It 
was  the  way  I  felt  when  they  give  the  William  Shake- 
speare supper  in  the  library  an'  had  it  lit  up  in  the 
evenin'  so  differ'nt  —  like  bein'  somewheres  else. 
It'll  be  that  way  on  Market  Square  next  month  when 
the  Carnival  comes.  I  guess  that's  why  I'm  a  extract 
agent,"  she  added,  laughing  a  little.  "When  I  set 
an'  smell  the  spices  I  could  think  it  wasn't  me  I 
feel  so  special.  An'  I  feel  that  way  now  —  I  do' 
know  if  you  know  what  I  mean  — 

She  looked  at  me,  measuring  my  ability  to  com- 
prehend, and  brightening  at  my  nod. 

"Well,  most  o?  Friendship  wouldn't  understand," 
she  said.  "To  them  vanilla  smells  like  corn-starch 
pudding  an'  no  more.  An'  that  reminds  me,"  she 
added  slowly,  "you  know  Friendship  well  enough  by 
this  time,  don't  you,  to  find  we're  apt  to  say  things 
here  this  afternoon  ?" 


THE   TEA   PARTY  217 

"Say  things?"   I  repeated,  puzzling. 

"We  won't  mean  to,"  she  hastened  loyally  to  add; 
"I  ain't  talkin'  about  us,  you  know,"  she  explained 
anxiously,  "  I  just  want  to  warn  you  so's  you  won't  be 
hurt.  I  guess  I  notice  such  things  more'n  most. 
We  won't  mean  to  offend  you  —  but  I  thought  you'd 
ought  to  know  ahead.  An'  bein'  as  it's  part  my  tea, 
I  thought  it  was  kind  o'  my  place  to  tell  you." 

She  was  touching  the  matter  delicately,  almost 
tenderly,  and  not  more,  as  I  saw,  with  a  wish  to  spare 
me  than  with  a  wish  to  apologize  in  advance  for  the 
others,  to  explain  away  some  real  or  fancied  weak- 
ness. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  "we  ain't  never  had  any- 
body to,  what  you  might  say,  tell  us  what  we  can  an' 
what  we  can't  say.  So  we  just  naturally  say  whatever 
comes  into  our  heads.  An'  then  when  we  get  it  said, 
we  see  often  that  it  ain't  what  we  meant  —  an'  that 
it's  apt  to  hurt  folks  or  put  us  in  a  bad  light,  or  some- 
thin'.  But  some  don't  even  see  that  —  some  go  right 
ahead  sayin'  the  hurt  things  an'  never  know  it  is  a 
hurt.  I  don't  know  if  you've  noticed  what  I  mean," 
Calliope  said,  "but  you  will  to-night.  An'  I  didn't 
want  you  should  be  hurt  or  should  think  hard  of  them 
that  says  'em." 

But  how,  I  wondered,  as  my  guests  assembled, 
could  one  "think  hard"  of  any  one  in  Friendship, 
and  especially  of  the  little  circle  to  which  I  belonged : 


n8  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

My  dear  Mis'  Amanda  Toplady,  Mis'  Photographer 
Sturgis,  Mis'  Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss,  whot 
since  our  Thanksgiving,  seemed,  as  Calliope  put  it, 
to  have  "got  good  with  the  universe  again";  the 
Liberty  sisters,  for  that  day  once  more  persuaded 
from  their  seclusion,  and  Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes, 
with,  we  sometimes  said,  "  some  right  to  hev  her  pecu- 
liarities if  ever  anybody  hed  it."  Of  them  all  the 
Friendship  phrase  of  approval  had  frequently  been 
spoken :  That  this  one,  or  that,  was  "at  hearty  one  o* 
the  most  all-round  capable  women  we've  got." 

I  had  hoped  to  have  one  more  guest  —  Mrs. 
Merriman,  wife  of  the  late  chief  of  the  Friendship  fire 
department.  But  I  had  promptly  received  her  re- 
grets, "owing  to  affliction  in  the  family,"  though  the 
fire  chief  had  died  two  years  and  more  before. 

"  But  it's  her  black,"  Calliope  had  explained  to  me 
sympathetically;  "she  can't  afford  to  throw  away  her 
best  dress,  made  mournin'  style,  with  crape  orna- 
ments. As  long  as  that  lasts  good,  she'll  hev  to  stay 
home  from  places.  I  see  she's  just  had  new  crape 
cuffs  put  on,  an'  that  means  another  six  months  at  the 
least.  An'  she  won't  go  to  parties  wearin'  widow 
weeds.  Mis'  Fire  Chief  Merriman  is  very  delicate." 

My  guests,  save  Calliope,  all  arrived  together  and 
greeted  me,  I  observed,  with  a  manner  of  marked 
surprise.  Afterward,  when  I  wondered,  Calliope 
explained  simply  that  it  was  not  usual  for  a  hostess 


THE   TEA    PARTY  219 

to  meet  her  guests  at  the  door.  "  Of  course,  they're 
usually  right  in  the  midst  o'  gettin'  the  supper  when 
the  company  comes,"  she  said. 

My  prettiest  dishes  and  silver  were  to  do  honour  to 
those  whom  I  had  bidden ;  and  boughs  of  my  Flower- 
ing-currant filled  my  little  hall  and  curved  above  the 
line  of  sight  at  table,  where  the  candle  shades  lent 
deeper  yellows.  I  delighted  in  the  manner  of  for- 
mality with  which  they  took  their  places,  as  if  some 
forgotten  ceremonial  of  ancient  courts  were  still  in 
their  veins,  when  a  banquet  was  not  a  thing  to  be 
entered  upon  lightly. 

Quite  in  ignorance  of  the  Japanese  custom  of  sip- 
ping tea  while  the  first  course  is  arriving,  it  is  our 
habit  in  Friendship  to  inaugurate  "supper"  by  seeing 
the  tea  poured.  In  deference  to  this  ceremony  a  hush 
fell  immediately  we  were  seated,  and  this  was  in 
courtesy  to  me,  who  must  inquire  how  each  would 
take  her  tea.  I  think  that  this  conversation  never 
greatly  varied,  as :  — 

"Mrs.  Toplady?"  I  said  at  once,  the  rest  being 
understood. 

"Cream  and  sugar,  if  you  please,"  said  that  great 
Amanda  heartily,  "or  milk  if  it's  milk.  I  take  the 
tea  for  the  trimmin's." 

Then  a  little  stir  of  laughter  and  a  straying  com- 
ment or  two  about,  say,  the  length  of  days  at  that 
time  of  year,  and :  — 


220  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"Mrs.  Sykes?" 

"Just  milk,  please.  I  always  say  I  don't  think  tea 
would  hurt  anybody  if  they'd  leave  the  sugar  alone. 
But  then,  I've  got  a  very  peculiar  stomach." 

"Mrs.  Holcomb?" 

"I  want  mine  plain  tea,  thank  you.  My  husband 
takes  milk  and  the  boys  like  sugar,  but  I  like  the 
taste  of  the  tea." 

At  which,  from  Libbie  Liberty:  "Oh,  Mis' 
Holcomb  just  says  that  to  make  out  she's  strong- 
minded.  Plain  tea  an'  plain  coffee's  regular 
woman's  rights  fare,  Mis'  Holcomb!"  And  then, 
after  more  laughter  and  Mis'  Holcomb's  blushes, 
they  awaited :  — 

"  Mrs.  Sturgis  ? " 

"Not  any  at  all,  thank  you.  No,  I  like  the  tea, 
but  the  tea  don't  like  me.  My  mother  was  the  same 
way.  She  never  could  drink  it.  No,  not  any  for  me, 
though  I  must  say  I  should  dearly  love  a  cup." 

"Miss'Viny?" 

"  Just  a  little  tea  and  the  rest  hot  water.  Dear  me, 
I  shouldn't  go  to  sleep  till  to-morrow  night  if  I  was  to 
drink  a  cup  as  strong  as  that.  No  —  a  little  more 
water,  please.  I  s'pose  I  can  send  it  back  for  more 
if  it's  still  too  strong  ?" 

"Miss  Libbie?" 

"Laviny  just  wants  the  canister  pointed  in  her 
direction,  an'  she  thinks  she's  had  her  tea.  Lucy 


THE   TEA   PARTY  221 

don't  dare  take  any.  l.iree  lumps  for  me,  please. 
I  like  mine  surup." 

"Calliope?" 

"Oh,"  said  Calliope,  "milk  if  there's  any  left  in  the 
pitcher.  An'  if  there  ain't,  send  it  down  clear.  I 
like  it  most  any  way.  Ain't  it  queer  about  the  dif- 
fer'nce  in  folks'  tastes  in  their  tea  and  coffee  ?" 

That  was  the  signal  for  the  talk  to  begin  with  anec- 
dotes of  how  various  relatives,  quick  and  passed, 
had  loved  to  take  their  tea.  No  one  ever  broached 
a  real  topic  until  this  introduction  had  had  its  way. 
To  do  so  would  have  been  an  indelicacy,  like  familiar 
speech  among  those  in  the  ceremony  of  a  first 
meeting. 

Thus  I  began  to  see  that  in  spite  of  Calliope's  dis- 
tress at  the  ways  of  us  in  Friendship,  a  matchless  deli- 
cacy was  among  its  people  a  dominant  note.  Not  the 
delicacy  born  of  convention,  not  that  sometimes  bred 
in  the  crudest  by  urban  standards,  but  a  finer  courtesy 
that  will  spare  the  conscious  stab  which  convention 
allows.  It  was,  if  I  may  say  so,  a  s avoir  fair e  of  the 
heart  instead  of  the  head.  But  we  had  hardly  en- 
tered upon  the  hour  before  the  ground  for  Calliope's 
warning  was  demonstrated. 

"There!"  she  herself  bridged  a  pause  with  her 
ready  little  laugh,  "I  knew  somebody'd  pass  me 
somethin'  while  I  was  saltin'  my  potato.  My  brother, 
older,  always  said  that  at  home.  'I  never  salt  my 


222  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

potato,'  he  use*  to  say,  'wii'Lout  somebody  passes  me 
somethin'." 

Next  instant  her  eyes  flew  to  my  face  in  a  kind  of 
horror,  for :  — 

"We've  noticed  that  at  our  house,  too,"  Mis'  Hol- 
comb-that-was-Mame-Bliss  observed,  vigorously  us- 
ing a  salt-shaker,  "but  then  I  always  believe,  myself, 
in  havin'  everything  properly  seasoned  in  the  kitchen 
before  it  comes  on  to  the  table." 

"See  !"  Calliope  signalled  me  fleetly. 

But  no  one  else,  and  certainly  not  Mis'  Holcomb 
herself,  perceived  the  surface  of  things  vexed  by  a 
ripple. 

"Well,  now,"  said  that  great  Mis'  Amanda  Top- 
lady  heartily,  "that  is  so  abcut  saltin'  your  potato. 
I  know  it  now,  but  I  never  thought  of  it  right  out 
before.  Lots  o'  things  are  true  that  you  don't  think 
of  right  out.  Now  I  come  to  put  my  mind  on  it,  I 
know  at  our  house  if  I  cut  up  a  big  plate  o'  bread  we 
don't  eat  up  half  of  it;  but  just  as  sure  as  I  don't,  I 
hev  to  get  up  from  the  table  an'  go  get  more 
bread." 

"I  know  —  we  often  speak  of  that!"  and  "So 
my  husband  says,"  chimed  Mis'  Holcomb  and  Mis' 
Sturgis. 

"Seems  as  if  I'd  noticed  that,  too,"  Calliope  said 
brightly. 

Whereupon :   "  My  part,"  Miss  Lucy  Liberty  con- 


THE   TEA   PARTY  223 

tributed  shyly,  "I  always  like  to  see  a  great  big  plate 
of  good,  big  slices  o'  bread  come  on  to  the  table. 
Looks  like  the  crock  was  full,"  she  added,  laughing 
heartily  to  cover  her  really  pretty  shyness,  "an*  like 
you  wouldn't  run  out." 

Calliope's  glance  at  me  was  still  more  distressed, 
for  my  table  showed  no  bread  at  all,  and  my  maid 
was  at  that  moment  handing  rolls  the  size  of  a 
walnut.  But  for  the  others  the  moment  passed  un- 
disturbed. 

"I've  never  noticed  in  particular  about  the  bread," 
observed  Mis'  Sykes,  —  she  had  great  magnetism,  for 
when  she  spoke  an  instant  hush  fell,  —  "but  what  / 
have  noticed  "  —  Mis'  Sykes  was  very  original  and 
usually  disregarded  the  experiences  of  others,  —  "is 
that  if  I  don't  make  a  list  of  my  washing  when  it 
goes,  something  is  pretty  sure  to  get  lost.  But  let  me 
make  a  list,  an'  even  the  dust-cloths'll  come  back 
home." 

Everybody  had  noticed  that.  Even  Libbie  Liberty 
assented,  and  exchanged  with  her  sister  a  smile  of 
domestic  memories. 

"An'  every  single  piece  has  got  my  initial  in  the 
corner,  too,"  Mis'  Sykes  added;  "I  wouldn't  hev  a 
piece  o'  linen  in  the  house  without  my  initial  on.  It 
don't  seem  to  me  rill  refined  not  to." 

Calliope's  look  was  almost  one  of  anguish.  My 
hemstitched  damask  napkins  bear  no  saving  initial 


224  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

in  a  corner.  But  no  one  else  would,  I  was  certain, 
connect  that  circumstance,  even  if  it  was  observed, 
with  what  Mis'  Sykes  had  said. 

"It's  too  bad  Mis'  Fire  Chief  Merriman  wouldn't 
come  to-day,"  Calliope  hastily  turned  the  topic. 
"She  can't  seem  to  get  used  to  things  again,  since 
Sum  died." 

"She  didn't  do  this  way  for  her  first  husband  that 
died  in  the  city,  I  heard,"  volunteered  Mis'  Sturgis. 
"Why,  I  heard  she  went  out  there,  right  after  the  first 
year." 

"That's  easy  explained,"  said  Mis'  Sykes,  posi- 
tively. 

"Wasn't  she  fond  of  him  ?"  asked  Mis'  Holcomb. 
"She  seems  real  clingin',  like  she  would  be  fond  o' 
most  any  one." 

"Oh,  yes,  she  was  fond  of  him,"  declared  Mis' 
Sykes.  "Why,  he  was  a  professional  man,  you  know. 
But  then  he  died  ten  years  ago,  durin'  tight  skirts. 
Naturally,  being  a  widow  then  wasn't  what  it  ir  now. 
She  couldn't  cut  her  skirt  over  to  any  advantage  —  a 
bell  skirt  is  a  bell  skirt.  An'  they  went  out  the  very 
next  year.  When  she  got  new  cloth  for  the  flare 
skirts,  she  got  colours.  But  the  Fire  Chief  died  right  at 
the  height  o'  the  full  skirts.  She's  kep'  cuttin'  over 
an'  cuttin'  over,  an'  by  the  looks  o'  the  Spring  plates 
she  can  keep  right  on  at  it.  She  really  can't  afford 
to  go  out  o'  mournin'.  I  don't  blame  her  a  bit." 


THE  TEA   PARTY  225 

"She  told  me  the  other  day,"  remarked  Libbie 
Liberty,  "that  she  was  real  homesick  for  some  com- 
pany food.  She  said  she'd  been  ask'  in  to  eat  with 
this  family  an'  that,  most  hospitable  but  very  plain. 
An'  seems  though  she  couldn't  wait  for  a  company 
lay-out/' 

"She  won't  go  anywheres  in  her  crape,"  Mis' 
Sykes  turned  to  me,  supplementing  Calliope's  former 
information.  "She's  a  very  superior  woman,  —  she 
graduated  in  Oils  in  the  city,  —  an'  she's  fitted  for 
any  society,  say  where  who  will.  We  always  say 
about  her  that  nobody's  so  delicate  as  Mis'  Fire 
Chief  Merriman." 

"She  don't  take  strangers  in  very  ready,  anyway," 
Mis'  Holcomb  explained  to  me.  "She  belongs  to 
what  you  might  call  the  old  school.  She's  very 
sensitive  to  everything.99 

The  moment  came  when  I  had  unintentionally 
produced  a  hush  by  serving  a  salad  unknown  in 
Friendship.  When  almost  at  once  I  perceived  what 
I  had  done,  I  confess  that  I  looked  at  Calliope  in  a 
kind  of  dread  lest  this  too  were  a  faux  pas,  and  I  took 
refuge  in  some  question  about  the  coming  Carnival. 
But  my  attention  was  challenged  by  my  maid,  who 
was  in  the  doorway  announcing  a  visitor. 

"Company,  ma'am,"  she  said. 

And  when  I  had  bidden  her  to  ask  that  I  be  excused 
for  a  little :  — 


226  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"Please,  ma'am,"  she  said,  "she  says  she  has  to 
see  you  now." 

And  when  I  suggested  the  lady's  card :  — 

"Oh,  it's  Mis'  Fire  Chief  Merriman,"  the  maid 
imparted  easily. 

"  Mis'  Fire  Chief  Merriman  ! "  exclaimed  every  one 
at  table.  "Well  forevermore  !  Speakin'  of  angels  ! 
She  must  'a'  forgot  the  tea  was  bein'. " 

In  my  living-room,  in  her  smartly  freshened  spring 
toilet  of  mourning,  Mis'  Fire  Chief  Merriman  rose 
to  greet  me.  She  was  very  tall  and  slight,  and  her 
face  was  curiously  like  an  oblong  yellow  brooch  which 
fastened  her  gown  at  the  throat. 

"My  dear  friend,"  she  said,  "I  felt,  after 
your  kind  invitation,  that  I  must  pay  my  respects 
during  your  tea.  Afterwards  wouldn't  be  the  same. 
It's  a  tea,  and  there  couldn't  be  lanterns  an'  bunting 
or  anything  o'  the  sort.  So  I  felt  I  could  come  in." 

"You  are  very  good,"  I  murmured,  and  in  some 
perplexity,  as  she  resumed  her  seat,  I  sat  down  also. 
Mis'  Merriman  sought  in  the  pocket  of  her  petticoat 
for  a  black-bordered  handkerchief. 

"When  you're  in  mourning  so,"  she  observed, 
"folks  forget  you.  They  don't  really  forget  you, 
either.  But  they  get  used  to  missing  you  places,  an* 
they  don't  always  remember  to  miss  you.  I  did 
appreciate  your  inviting  me  to-day  so.  Because  I'm 
just  as  fond  of  meeting  my  friends  as  I  was  before  the 
chief  died." 


THE  TEA   PARTY  227 

And  when  I  had  made  an  end  of  murmuring  some- 
thing :  — 

"Really,"  she  went  on  placidly,  "it  ought  to  be 
the  custom  to  go  out  in  society  when  you're  in  mourn- 
ing if  you  never  did  any  other  time.  You  need  dis- 
traction then  if  you  ever  needed  it  in  your  life.  An' 
the  chief  would  'a'  been  the  first  to  feel  that  too.  He 
was  very  partial  to  going  out  in  company/' 

And  when  I  had  made  an  end  of  murmuring  some- 
thing else :  — 

"  You  were  very  thoughtful  to  give  me  an  invitation 
for  this  afternoon,"  she  said.  "An*  I  felt  that  I  must 
stop  in  an'  tell  you  so,  even  if  I  couldn't  attend." 

Serenely  she  spread  her  black  crape  fan  and  swayed 
it.  In  the  dining-room  my  guests  proceeded  with 
their  lonely  salad  toward  a  probable  lonely  dessert. 
At  thought  of  that  dessert  and  of  that  salad,  a  sug- 
gestion, partly  impulsive  and  partly  flavoured  with 
some  faint  reminiscence,  at  once  besieged  me,  and  in 
it  I  divined  a  solution  of  the  moment. 

"Mrs.  Merriman,"  I  said  eagerly,  "may  I  send  you 
in  a  cup  of  strawberry  ice  ?  I've  some  early  straw- 
berries from  the  city." 

She  turned  on  me  her  great  dark  eyes,  with  their 
flat  curve  of  shadow  accenting  her  sadness. 

"I'm  sure  you  are  very  kind,"  she  said  simply. 
"An'  I  should  be  pleased,  I'm  sure." 

I  rose,  hesitating,  longing  to  say  what  I  had  in  mind. 


228  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"I'd  really  like  your  opinion,"  I  said,  "on  rather  a 
new  salad  I'm  trying.  Now  would  you  not  — " 

"A  salad?"  Mis'  Merriman  repeated.  "The 
chief,"  she  said  reflectively,  "was  very  partial  to  all 
green  salads.  I  don't  think  men  usually  care  for 
them  the  way  he  did." 

"Dear  Mrs.  Merriman,"  said  I  at  this,  "a  cup  of 
bouillon  and  a  bit  of  chicken  breast  and  a  drop  of 
creamed  cauliflower — " 

"Oh,"  she  murmured,  "really,  I  couldn't  think—" 

And  when  I  had  made  my  cordial  insistence  she 
looked  up  at  me  for  a  moment  solemnly,  over  her 
crape  fan.  I  thought  that  her  eyes  with  that  flat, 
underlying  curve  of  shadow  were  as  if  tears  were 
native  to  them.  Her  grief  and  the  usages  of  grief 
had  made  of  her  some  one  other  than  her  first  self, 
some  one  circumscribed,  wary  of  living. 

"Oh,"  she  said  wistfully,  "I  ain't  had  anything 
like  that  since  I  went  into  mourning.  If  you  don't 
think  it  would  be  disrespectful  to  him  —  ?" 

"I  am  certain  that  it  would  not  be  so,"  I  assured 
her,  and  construed  her  doubting  silence  as  capitula- 
tion. 

So  I  filled  a  tray  with  all  the  dainties  of  our  little 
feast,  and  my  maid  carried  it  to  her  where  she  sat,  and 
then  to  us  at  table  served  dessert.  And  my  strange 
party  went  forward  with  seven  guests  in  my  dining- 
room  and  one  mourner  at  supper  in  my  living-room. 


THE  TEA   PARTY  229 

"How  very,  very  delicate!"  said  Mis'  Postmaster 
Sykes,  in  an  emphatic  whisper.  "Mis'  Fire  Chief 
Merriman  is  a  very  superior  woman,  an'  she  always 
does  the  delicate  thing." 

And  now  as  I  met  Calliope's  eyes  I  saw  that  the 
dear  little  woman  was  looking  at  me  with  a  manner 
of  unmistakable  pride.  In  spite  of  her  warning  to 
me  and  what  she  thought  had  been  its  justification 
during  the  supper,  here  was  an  occasion  to  reveal 
to  me  a  delicacy  unequalled. 

Thereafter,  in  deference  to  my  mourning  guest  in 
the  next  room,  we  all  dropped  our  voices  and  talked 
virtually  in  whispers.  And  when  at  last  we  rose  from 
the  table,  complete  silence  had  come  upon  us. 

Then,  the  tray  not  having  yet  been  brought  from 
that  other  room,  I  confess  to  having  found  myself 
somewhat  uncertain  how  to  treat  a  situation  so  out 
of  my  experience.  But  the  kind  heart  of  my  dear 
Mis'  Amanda  Toplady  was  the  dictator. 

"Now,"  she  whispered,  tip-toeing,  "we  must  all  go 
in  an'  speak  to  her.  Poor  woman  —  she  don't  call 
anywheres,  an'  she  stays  in  mournin'  so  long  folks 
have  kind  o'  dropped  off  goin'  to  see  her.  Let's 
walk  in  an'  be  rill  nice  to  her." 

Mis'  Fire  Chief  Merriman  sat  as  I  had  left  her,  and 
the  tray  was  before  her  on  my  writing-table.  She 
looked  up  gravely  and  greeted  them  all,  one  by  one, 
without  rising.  We  sat  about  her  in  a  circle  and 


230  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

spoke  to  her  gently  on  subjects  decently  allied  to  hei 
grief:  on  the  coming  meeting  of  the  Cemetery  Im- 
provement Sodality;  on  the  new  styles  in  mourning; 
on  the  deaths  in  Friendship  during  the  winter;  and  on 
two  cases  of  typhoid  fever  recently  developed  in  the 
town.  (The  Fire  Chief  had  died  of  "walking  typo.") 
And  Mis'  Merriman,  gravely  partaking  of  straw- 
berry ice  and  cake  and  bonbons,  listened  and  re- 
plied and,  with  the  last  morsel,  rose  to  take  her  leave. 

It  was  then  that  my  unlucky  star  shone  effulgent. 
For,  as  she  was  shaking  hands  all  round :  — 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Merriman,"  I  said,  with  the  gentlest  in- 
tent, "would  you  care  to  come  out  to  see  my  dining- 
room  ?  My  Flowering-currant  was  very  early  this 
year—" 

To  my  horrified  amazement  Mis'  Fire  Chief  Merri- 
man lifted  her  black-bordered  handkerchief  to  her 
face  and  broke  into  subdued  sobbing.  Suddenly  I 
understood  that  all  the  others  were  looking  at  me  in 
a  kind  of  reproachful  astonishment.  My  bewilder- 
ment, mounting  for  an  instant,  was  precipitately 
overthrown  by  the  sobbing  woman's  words. 

"Oh,"  Mis'  Merriman  said  indistinctly,  "I'm  much 
obliged  to  you,  I'm  sure.  But  how  can  you  think  I 
would  ?  I  haven't  looked  at  lanterns  an'  bunting  an* 
such  things  since  the  Fire  Chief  died.  I  don't  know 
how  I'm  ever  going  to  stand  the  Carnival !" 

In  deep  distress  I  apologized,  and  found  myself 


THE  TEA   PARTY  231 

adrift  upon  a  sea  of  uncharted  classifications.  Here 
were  niceties  of  distinction  which  escaped  my  ruder 
vision,  trained  to  the  mere  interchange  of  signals  in 
smooth  sailing  or  straight  tempest,  on  open  water. 
But  I  knew  with  grief  that  I  had  given  her  pain  — 
that  was  clear  enough ;  and  in  my  confusion  and  wish 
to  make  amends,  I  caught  up  from  their  jar  on  the 
hall  table  my  Flowering-currant  boughs  and  thrust 
them  in  her  hands. 

"Ah,"  I  begged  breathlessly,  "at  all  events,  take 
these!" 

On  which  she  drew  away  from  me  and  shook  her 
head  and  fairly  fled  down  the  path,  her  floating  crape 
brushing  the  mother  bushes  of  my  offending  offering. 
And  I  was  helplessly  aware  that  sympathetic  silence 
had  fallen  on  the  others  and  that  the  sympathy  was 
not  for  me. 

"  But  what  on  earth  was  the  matter  ?"  I  entreated 
my  guests. 

It  was  that  great  Mis'  Amanda  Toplady  who 
slipped  her  arm  about  me  and  explained. 

"When  we've  got  any  dead  belongin'  to  us,"  she 
said,  "we  always  carry  all  the  flowers  we  get  to  the 
grave  —  an',  of  course,  we  don't  feel  we  can  carry 
them  that's  been  used  for  a  company.  It's  the  same 
with  Mis'  Fire  Chief.  An'  she  can't  bear  even  to 
see  flowers  an'  things  that's  fixed  for  a  company, 
either.  Of  course,  that's  her  privilege." 


232  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

Mis'  Sykes  took  my  hands. 

"You  come  here  so  lately,"  she  said,  "you  natu- 
rally wouldn't  know  what's  what  in  these  things,  here 
in  Friendship.  An'  then,  of  course,  Mis'  Fire  Chief 
Merriman  is  very,  very  delicate." 

Calliope  linked  her  arm  in  mine. 

"Don't  you  mind,"  she  whispered;  "we're  all 
liable  to  our  mistakes." 

Half  ah  hour  after  tea  my  guests  took  leave. 

"I  enjoyed  myself  so  much,"  said  Mis'  Holcomb- 
that-was-Mame-Bliss;  "you  look  tired  out.  I  hope 
it  ain't  been  too  much  for  you." 

" Entertainin'  is  a  real  job,"  said  Mis'  Sturgis,  "but 
you  do  it  almost  as  if  you  liked  it.  I  enjoyed  myself 
so  much." 

"I'll  give  bail  you're  glad  it's  over,"  said  Libbie 
Liberty,  sympathetically,  "even  if  it  did  go  off  nice. 
I  enjoyed  myself  ever  so  much." 

'Ever  so  much,"  murmured  Miss  Lucy,  laughing 
heartily. 

"  Good  night.  Everything  was  lovely.  I  enjoyed 
myself  very  much,"  Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes  told  me. 
"And,"  she  said,  "you'll  hear  from  me  very,  very 
soon  in  return  for  this." 

"Now  don't  you  overdo,  reddin'  up  to-night," 
advised  my  dear  Mis'  Amanda  Toplady.  ''  Just  pick 
up  the  silver  an'  rense  it  off,  an'  let  the  dishes  set  till 
mornin',  7  say.  I  did  enjoy  myself  so  much." 


THE  TEA   PARTY  233 

"  Good-by,"  Calliope  whispered  in  the  hall.  "  Oh, 
it  was  beautiful.  I  never  felt  so  special.  Thank 
you  —  thank  you.  An'  —  you  won't  mind  those 
things  we  said  at  the  supper  table  ?" 

"Oh,  Calliope,"  I  murmured  miserably,  "I've 
forgotten  all  about  them." 

I  went  out  to  the  veranda  with  her.  At  the  foot 
of  the  steps  the  others  had  paused  in  consultation. 
Hesitating,  they  looked  up  at  me,  and  Mis'  Sykes 
became  their  spokesman. 

"  If  I  was  you,"  she  said  gently,  "  I  wouldn't  feel  too 
cut  up  over  that  slip  o'  yours  to  Mis'  Merriman. 
She'd  ought  not  to  see  blunders  where  they  wasn't  any 
meant.  It'd  ought  to  be  the  heart  that  counts,  /  say. 
Good-by.  We  enjoyed  ourselves  very,  very  much  !" 

They  went  down  the  path  between  blossoming 
bushes,  in  the  late  afternoon  sun.  And  as  Calliope 
followed,  — 

"That's  so  about  the  heart,  ain't  it?"  she  said 
brightly. 


XVI 

WHAT  IS   THAT   IN   THINE    HAND  ? 

"  BUSY,  busy,  busy,  busy  all  the  day.  Busy,  busy, 
busy.  And  busy  ..." 

"There  goes  Ellen  Ember,  crazy  again,"  we  said, 
when  we  heard  that  cry  of  hers,  not  unmelodious  nor 
loud,  echoing  along  Friendship  streets. 

Then  we  usually  ran  to  the  windows  and  peered  at 
her.  Sometimes  her  long  hair  would  be  unbound  on 
her  shoulders,  sometimes  her  little  figure  would  be 
leaping  lightly  up  as  she  caught  at  the  lowest  boughs 
of  the  curb  elms,  and  sometimes  her  hand  would  be 
moving  swiftly  back  and  forth  above  her  heart. 

"If  your  heart  is  broken,"  she  had  explained  to 
many,  "you  can  lace  it  together  with  'Busy,  busy, 
busy  .  .  . '  Sing  it  and  see  !  Or  mebbe  your  heart 
is  all  of  a  piece  ?" 

Once,  when  I  had  gone  to  Miss  Liddy's  house,  I 
had  found  Ellen  in  a  skirt  fashioned  of  an  old  plaid 
shawl  of  her  father's,  her  bare  shoulders  wound  in 
the  rosy  "nubia"  that  had  been  her  mother's,  and 

234 


WHAT   IS  THAT   IN  THINE   HAND?  235 

she  was  dancing  in  the  dining-room,  with  surprising 
grace,  as  Pierrette  might  have  danced  in  Carnival, 
and  singing,  in  a  sweet,  piping  voice,  an  incongruous 
little  song:  — 

O  Day  of  wind  and  laughter, 

A  goddess  born  are  you, 
Whose  eyes  are  in  the  morning 

Blue  —  blue! 

"I  made  that  up,"  she  had  explained,  "or  I  guess 
mebbe  I  remembered  it  from  deep  in  my  skull.  I 
like  the  feel  of  it  in  my  mouth  when  I  speak  the 
words." 

I  used  to  think  that  Miss  Liddy  was  really  a  less 
useful  citizen  than  Ellen.  For  though  Miss  Liddy 
worked  painstakingly  at  her  dressmaking,  and  even 
dreamed  over  it  little  partial  dreams,  Ellen,  mad  or 
sane,  made  a  garden,  and  threw  little  nosegays  over 
our  fences,  and  exercised  a  certain  presence,  latent 
in  the  rest  of  us,  which  made  us  momentarily  gentle 
and  in  awe  of  our  own  sanity. 

When,  one  spring  morning,  a  week  before  the 
Friendship  Carnival,  she  passed  down  Daphne  Street 
with  her  plaintive,  musical  "  Busy,  busy,  busy  ..." 
Doctor  June  and  the  young  Reverend  Arthur  Bliss 
sat  on  Doctor  June's  screened-in  porch  discussing  a 
deficit  in  the  Good  Shepherd's  Orphans'  Home  fund 
for  the  fiscal  year.  Ever  since  the  wreck  of  the 
Through,  Friendship  had  contributed  to  the  support 


236  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

of  the  Home,  —  having  first  understood  then  that  the 
Home  was  its  patient  pensioner,  —  and  now  it  was 
almost  like  a  compliment  that  we  had  been  appealed 
to  for  help. 

Doctor  June  listened  with  serene  patience  to  what 
his  visitor  would  say. 

"Tension,"  said  the  Reverend  Arthur  Bliss,  squar- 
ing his  splendid  young  shoulders,  "tension.  War- 
fare. We,  as  a  church,  are  enormously  equipped. 
We  have  —  shall  we  say  ?  —  the  helmets  of  our  in- 
telligence and  the  swords  of  our  wills.  WThy,  the  joy 
of  the  fight  ought  to  be  to  us  like  that  of  a  strong 
man  ready  to  do  battle,  oughtn't  it  —  oughtn't  it  ?" 

Doctor  June,  his  straight  white  hair  outlining  his 
plump  pink  face,  nodded ;  but  one  would  have  said 
that  it  was  rather  less  at  the  Reverend  Arthur  than  at 
his  Van  Houtii  spiraea,  which  nodded  back  at  him. 

"My  young  friend,"  said  Doctor  June,  "will  you 
forgive  me  for  saying  that  it  is  fairly  amazing  to  me 
how  the  church  of  God  continues  to  use  the  terms  of 
barbarism  ?  We  talk  of  the  peace  that  passeth  under- 
standing, and  yet  we  keep  on  employing  metaphors 
of  blood-red  war.  What  does  the  modern  church 
want  of  a  helmet  and  a  sword,  if  I  may  ask  ?  Even 
rhetorically  ?" 

"The  Christian  life  is  an  eternal  warfare  against 
the  forces  of  sin,  is  it  not?"  asked  the  Reverend 
Arthur  Bliss  in  surprise. 


WHAT   IS  THAT  IN  THINE   HAND?  237 

"Let  me  suggest,"  said  Doctor  June,  "that  all 
good  life  is  an  eternal  surrender  to  the  forces  of  good. 
There's  a  difference." 

The  visitor  from  the  city  smiled  very  reverently. 

"I  see,  sir,"  he  said,  "that  you  are  one  of  those 
wonderful  non-combatants.  You  are  by  nature 
sanctified  —  and  that  I  can  well  believe." 

"I  am  by  nature  a  miserable  old  sinner,"  rejoined 
the  doctor,  warmly.  "Often  —  often  I  would  enjoy 
a  fine  round  Elizabethan  oath  —  note  how  that  single 
adjective  condones  my  poor  taste.  But  I  hold  that 
good  is  inflowing  and  that  it  possesses  whom  it  may 
possess.  If  a  man  is  too  busy  fighting,  it  may  pass 
him  by." 

"But  surely,  sir,"  said  the  young  clergyman,  "you 
agree  with  me  that  a  man  wins  his  way  into  the  king- 
dom of  light  by  both  a  staff  and  a  sword  ?" 

"You  will  perhaps  forgive  me  for  agreeing  with 
nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  the  doctor,  mildly;  "I  hold 
that  a  man  takes  his  way  to  the  light  by  grasping 
whatever  the  Lord  puts  in  his  hand  —  a  hammer,  a 
rope,  a  pen  —  and  grasping  it  hard." 

"But  the  ungifted  —  what  of  the  ungifted  ?"  cried 
the  Reverend  Arthur  Bliss. 

"  In  this  sense,  there  are  none,"  said  Doctor  June, 
briefly. 

"  Busy,  busy,  busy  all  the  day.  Busy,  busy,  busy 
.  .  ."  sounded  suddenly  from  the  street  in  Ellen's 


238  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

thin  soprano.  Doctor  June  looked  down  at  her,  his 
expression  scarcely  changing,  because  it  was  always 
serenely  soft.  But  the  young  clergyman  saw  with 
amazement  the  strange  little  figure  with  her  unbound 
hair  and  her  arms  high  and  swaying,  and  as  she  took 
some  steps  of  her  dance  before  the  gate,  he  questioned 
his  host  with  uplifted  brows. 

"A  little  mad,"  the  doctor  said,  nodding,  "like  us 
all.  She  sings  in  the  streets  of  a  glad  morning,  and 
dances  now  and  then.  We  take  ours  out  in  tangential 
opinions.  It  is  nearly  the  same  thing." 

The  young  clergyman's  face  lighted  responsively 
at  this,  and  then  he  deferentially  clinched  his  argu- 
ment. 

"There  is  a  case  in  point,"  said  he.  "That  poor 
creature  there — what  has  the  Lord  put  in  her  hand  ?" 

Doctor  June  looked  thoughtful. 

"Nothing,"  he  declared,  "for  any  fight.  But  I'm 
not  sure  that  she  isn't  made  to  be  a  leaven.  The 
kingdom  of  God  works  like  a  leaven,  you  know,  my 
dear  young  friend.  Not  like  a  dum-dum  bullet." 

"  But  —  that  poor  creature.  A  leaven  ?"  doubted 
the  Reverend  Arthur  Bliss. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  said  Doctor  June,  "I 
shouldn't  wonder.  I'm  not  so  sure  as  I  used  to  be 
that  I  can  recognize  leaven  at  first  s'ght." 

"Ah,  that's  it!"  cried  his  guest.  "But  a  soldier, 
now,  is  a  soldier!" 


WHAT   IS   THAT   IN  THINE   HAND?  239 

Then  they  smiled  their  lack  of  acquiescence,  and 
went  back  to  the  figures  for  the  fiscal  year. 

An  hour  later  Doctor  June  stood  alone  on  his  gar- 
den walk,  aimlessly  poking  about  among  his  slips. 
He  had  done  what  he  always  did,  following  close  on 
the  heels  of  his  well-established  resolution  never  to  do 
it  again.  He  had  pledged  himself  to  try  to  raise  one 
hundred  dollars  in  Friendship  for  a  pet  philanthropy. 

"It's  a  kind  of  dissipation  with  me,"  he  said,  help- 
lessly, and  wandered  down  to  his  gate.  "If  I  read 
an  article  about  the  Congo  Free  State  or  Women  in 
India,  it  acts  on  me  like  brandy.  I  go  off  my  head 
and  give  away  my  substance,  and  involve  innocent 
people.  But  then,  of  course,  this  is  different.  It  is 
always  different." 

Then  he  heard  Ellen's  little  song  again.  "Busy, 
busy,  busy  ..."  she  sang,  and  came  round  the  cor- 
ner from  the  town,  catching  at  the  lowest  branches  of 
the  curb  elms  and  laughing  a  little.  At  Doctor 
June's  gate  she  halted  and  shook  some  lilacs  at 
him. 

"Here,"  she  said,  "put  some  on  your  coat  for  a 
patch  on  your  heart  so's  the  break  won't  show.  Ain't 
the  Lord  made  the  sun  shine  down  this  morning  ? 
Did  you  know  there's  a  Carnival  comin'  to  town  ?" 

"Like  enough,  Ellen,"  said  Doctor  June.  "Like 
enough." 

"Is  one,"  she  persisted.     "They  said  about  it  in 


240  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

the  Post-Office  —  I  heard  'em.  Dancin',  an'  parrots, 
an'  jumpin'  dogs." 

He  stood  looking  at  her  thoughtfully  as  she  ar- 
ranged her  flowers,  singing  under  breath. 

"  Ellen,"  he  said,  "will  you  tell  Miss  Liddy  a  few  of 
us  are  going  to  meet  here  in  my  yard  to-morrow  after- 
noon, to  talk  over  some  money-raising  ?  And  ask 
her  to  come  ?" 

"  I  will,"  Ellen  sang  it,  "  I  will  an'  I  will.  Did  you 
mean  me  to  come,  too  ?"  she  broke  off  wistfully. 

"My  stars,  yes!"  said  Doctor  June.  " You're 
going  to  come  early  and  help  me,  aren't  you  ?  I 
took  that  for  granted." 

"Here's  your  lilacs,"  said  Ellen,  tossing  him  a  nose- 
gay. "I'll  tell  Liddy  while  she's  eatin'.  Liddy 
don't  like  me  to  talk  much  when  she's  workin'.  But 
when  she  eats  I  can  talk,  an'  I'll  tell  her  then." 

She  went  on,  singing,  and  Doctor  June  shook  his 
head. 

"I  don't  know  but  Mr.  Bliss  is  right,"  he  said, 
"though  I  hope  I  can  keep  my  doubts  to  myself  and 
not  brag  about  'em,  just  to  be  the  style.  But  it  does 
look  as  if  poor  Ellen  Ember  came  into  the  world 
empty-handed.  As  if  the  Lord  didn't  give  her  much 
of  anything  to  work  with." 

Summons  to  a  meeting  to  talk  over  money-raising 
is,  in  Friendship,  like  the  call  to  festivity  in  a  different 
life.  The  cause  never  greatly  matters.  Interests 


WHAT   IS  THAT   IN  THINE   HAND?  241 

appear  eclectically  to  range  from  ice  to  coral.  For 
let  the  news  get  about  that  there  is  to  be  a  bazaar  for 
China,  a  home  bakery  sale  for  the  missionary  station 
at  Trebizond,  or  a  Japanese  tea  for  the  Friendship 
cemetery  fund,  and  we  all  sew  or  bake  or  lend  dishes 
or  sell  tickets  with  the  same  infinity  of  zeal.  The 
enterprise  in  hand  absorbs  our  sense  of  the  ultimate 
object;  as  when,  after  three  days  of  hand-to-hand 
battle  to  wrest  money  for  the  freedmen  from  the 
patrons  of  a  Kirmess  at  the  old  roller-skating  rink, 
dear  Mis'  Amanda,  secretary  and  door-tender, 
handed  over  our  $64.85  with  the  wondering  ques- 
tion :  — 

"What  do  they,  mean  by  Freegman,  anyway? 
What  country  is  it  they  live  in  ?" 

It  was  no  marvel  that  Doctor  June's  garden  was 
filled,  that  yellow  afternoon,  with  many  eager  for 
action.  Some  of  us  knew  that  there  was  an  Orphans' 
Home  fund  deficit;  but  more  of  us  knew  only  that 
we  were  to  "talk  over  some  money-raising."  I  re- 
member how,  from  the  garden  seat  against  the  spiraea, 
the  doctor  faced  us,  all  scattered  about  the  antlered 
walL  and  its  triangle  of  green,  erect  on  golden  oak 
and  bright  velvet  chairs  from  within  doors.  And 
when  he  had  told  us  of  the  shortage  to  which  we  were 
party,  instantly  the  talk  emptied  into  channels  of  pos- 
sible pop-corn  social,  chicken-pie  supper,  rummage 
sale,  art  and  loan  exhibit,  Old  Settlers'  Entertain- 


242  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

ment,  and  so  on.  After  which  Doctor  June  rose,  and 
stood  touching  thoughtfully  at  the  leaves  which 
grew  nearest,  while  he  essayed  to  turn  our  minds 
from  chicken-pot-pie-part-veal,  and  bib-aprons,  to 
the  eternal  verities. 

"My  friends,"  he  said,  "isn't  there  a  better  way  ? 
Let  us,  this  time,  give  of  our  hearts'  love  to  the  little 
children  of  God,  instead  of  buying  pies  and  freezing 
ice  cream  in  His  name." 

There  was,  of  course,  an  instant's  hush  in  the  gar- 
den. We  were  not  used  to  paradoxes,  and  we  felt  as 
concave  images  must  feel  when  they  first  look  upon 
the  world.  It  was  as  amazing  as  if  we  had  been  told 
that  God  grieves  with  us  instead  of  afflicting  us,  as 
we  held. 

"None  of  us  has  much  money  to  give,"  Doctor 
June  went  on;  "let  us  take  the  way  that  lies  nearest 
our  hand,  and  make  a  little  money.  God  never  per- 
mitted any  normal  human  creature  to  come  into  His 
world  unprovided  with  some  means  of  making  it 
better.  Only,  let  us  get  outside  our  bazaar  and 
chicken-pie  faculties.  Now  what  can  we  each  do  ?" 

We  sat  still  for  a  little,  tentatively  murmuring; 
and  then  Mis'  Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss  stood 
up  by  the  sweet-alyssum  urn. 

"Speakin'  of  what  we  can  do,"  she  said,  "doin* 
ain't  easy.  Not  when  you're  well  along  in  years. 
Your  ways  seem  to  stiffen  up  some.  When  I  was  a 


WHAT   IS  THAT   IN  THINE   HAND?  243 

girl,  I  could  'a'  been  quite  an  elocutionist  if  I  could  'a' 
had  lessonr.  I  had  a  reg'lar  born  sense  o'  givin' 
gestures.  But  I  never  took.  An'  now  I  declare  I 
don't  know  of  anything  I  could  do.  It's  the  same 
way,  I  guess,  with  quite  a  number  of  us." 

Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes  was  in  the  arm-chair,  and 
she  sat  still,  queenly. 

"  I  could  do  some  o'  my  embroidery,"  she  observed, 
"but  it's  quite  expensive  stuff,  an'  I  don't  know 
whether  it  would  sell  rill  well  here  in  Friendship.  I'd 
be  'most  afraid  to  risk.  An'  I  don't  do  enough  cookin', 
myself,  to  what-you-might-say  know  how,  any  more." 

"Same  with  my  sewing,"  observed  Mis'  Doctor 
Helman;  "I  put  it  all  out  now.  I  don't  know  as  I 
could  sew  up  a  seam.  That's  the  trouble,  hiring 
everything  done  so." 

Those  who  did  not  hire  everything  done  preserved 
a  respectful  silence.  And  Doctor  June  looked  up 
in  the  elm  trees. 

"The  Lord,"  he  said,  "spoke  to  Moses  out  of  the 
burning  bush.  The  Lord  said  unto  Moses,  'What 
is  that  in  thine  hand  ?'  Moses  had,  you  remember, 
nothing  but  a  rod  in  his  hand.  But  it  was  enough  to 
let  the  people  know  that  God  had  been  with  him  — 
that  the  Lord  had  appeared  unto  him.  Suppose  the 
glory  of  the  Lord,  here  in  the  garden,  should  ask  us 
now,  as  it  does  ask,  'What  is  that  in  thine  hand?' 
What  have  we  got  ?" 


244  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

There  was  silence  again,  and  we  looked  at  one 
another  doubtfully. 

"Land,  Doctor!"  said  Libbie  Liberty  then,  "I 
been  tryin'  for  two  years  to  earn  a  new  parlour  car- 
pet, an*  I  ain't  had  nothin'  in  my  hand  to  earn  with. 
So  I  keep  on  sayin'  I  like  an  old  Brussels  carpet  — 
they're  so  easy  to  sweep." 

"My!"  said  Abigail  Arnold,  "I  declare,  I'd  be 
real  put  to  it  to  try  to  make  extry  money.  'Bout  the 
only  thing  the  Lord  seems  to  'a'  put  in  my  hand  is 
time.  I've  got  oodles  o'  that,  layin'  'round  loose.' 

Mis'  Photographer  Sturgis  was  in  the  big  garden 
chair,  wrapped  in  a  shawl,  her  feet  on  an  inverted 
flower-pot. 

"  I'm  tryin'  to  think,"  she  said,  looking  sidewise  at 
the  ground.  "I  donno's  I  know  how  I  could  earn 
a  cent,  convenient.  It  ain't  real  easy  for  women  to 
earn.  I  think  mebbe  the  Lord  meant  the  men  to  be 
the  Moseses." 

Mis'  Amanda  Toplady's  voice  rolled  out,  deep 
and  comfortable,  like  a  complaisant  giant's. 

"  Well  said  ! "  she  remarked.  "  I'm  drove  to  death 
all  day.  If  anybody's  to  ask  me  what  I  got  in  my 
hand,  I  declare  I  guess  I'd  say,  rill  reverent:  Dear 
Lord,  I've  got  my  hands  full,  an'  that's  about  all  I 
have  got." 

So  we  went  on,  saying  much  or  little  as  was  our 
nature,  but  we  were  all  agreed  that  we  were  virtually 


WHAT   IS   THAT   IN  THINE   HAND?  24* 

helpless  —  for  Calliope  was  out  of  town  that  week, 
and  not  present  to  shame  us. 

"What's  in  my  hands?"  said  grim  Miss  Liddy 
Ember,  finally,  in  her  thin  falsetto.  "Well,  I  ain't 
got  any  rill,  what-you-might-call  hands.  I  just  got 
kind  o'  cat's  paws  for  my  three  meals  a  day  an'  my 


rent." 


Then,  by  her  sister's  side,  Ellen  Ember  stood  up. 
We  had  hardly  noticed  her,  sitting  there  quietly  play- 
ing with  some  of  the  doctor's  flowers.  But  now  we 
saw  that  she  had  hurriedly  twisted  her  splendid  hair 
about  her  head,  and  by  this  we  understood  that  she 
was  herself  again.  We  had  seen  her  come  to  herself 
like  this  on  the  street,  and  then  she  would  go  hurrying 
home,  the  tears  running  down  her  face  in  shame  for 
her  unbound  hair  and  her  singing  and  dancing.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  eyes  were  shining  as  she 
rose  now,  and  she  looked  appealingly  pretty,  one 
hand,  palm  outward,  half  hiding  her  trembling 
mouth.  By  her  soft  eyes,  too,  we  knew  that  she 
was  herself  again. 

"You  all  know,"  she  began,  and  dare  not  trust 
herself.  "  You  all  know  .  .  ."she  said  once  more,  and 
we  understood  what  she  would  say.  "What  can  I 
do  ?"  she  cried  to  us.  "What  is  there  I  can  do  ?  I 
ain't  got  anything  but  my  craziness !  Oh,  it  seems 
like  I  aint  much,  an'  so  I'd  ought  to  do  all  the  more." 

To  soothe  her,  we  took  our  woman's  way  of  all 


246  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

talking  at  once.  And  then  Doctor  June  called  out 
cheerily  that  he  felt  the  way  Ellen  did,  that  he  wasn't 
a  real  Moses,  for  what  had  he  —  Doctor  June  —  in 
his  hand,  and  didn't  we  all  know  there  was  no  money 
in  pills  ?  And  then  he  told  us  how  the  Reverend 
Arthur  Bliss  was  to  be  in  town  again  on  Wednesday 
of  the  next  week,  and  would  we  not  all  think  the 
matter  over  quietly,  and  meet  with  them  on  that 
evening,  for  cakes  and  tea  ? 

"As  many  of  you  as  can,"  he  said,  "come  with  a 
plan  to  earn  a  dollar,  and  tell  how  you  mean  to  do  it. 
Ellen,  you  and  I'll  preside  at  the  meeting,  and  hear 
what  the  rest  say,  and  keep  real  still  ourselves,  like 
proper  officers." 

But  Ellen  Ember  would  not  be  comforted.  She 
stood  with  that  one  hand,  palm  outward,  pressed 
against  her  lips,  looking  at  us  with  big,  brimming 
eyes. 

"  I  ain't  got  nothin'  but  my  craziness,  you  know," 
she  said  over.  And  then,  as  she  was  going  through 
the  gateway,  she  turned  to  Doctor  June. 

"Why,  Wednesday's  the  first  night  o'  the  Carni- 
val !"  she  cried.  "You  set  the  dollar  meetin'  on  the 
first  night  o'  the  Carnival!" 

"My  stars  !"  cried  Doctor  June,  gravely.  "And  I 
might  have  been  selling  pills  on  the  grounds !" 

All   Friendship   Village   loves   a  Carnival.     Once 


WHAT   IS   THAT   IN   THINE   HAND?  247 

the  word  meant  to  me  a  Florentine  fiesta  day,  with 
a  feast  of  colour,  and  of  many  little  fine  things, 
"real,  like  laughter."  Now  when  I  say  "carnival" 
I  mean  the  painted  eruption  by  night  from  the 
market  square  of  some  town  like  Friendship,  when 
lines  broaden  and  waver  grotesquely,  when  the  mirth 
is  in  great  silhouettes  and  Colour  goes  unmasked. 

I  always  make  my  way  to  such  a  place,  for  it 
holds  for  me  the  wonder  of  the  untoward;  as  will 
a  strolling  Italian  plodding  past  my  house  at  night 
with  his  big,  silent  bear;  or  the  spectacle  of  the 
huge,  faded  red  ice-wagon,  with  powerful  horses 
and  rattling  chains  and  tongs,  and  giants  in  blue 
denim  atop  the  crystal ;  or  the  strange,  copper  world 
that  dissolves  in  the  fluid  of  certain  sunsets.  And 
that  Wednesday  night,  a  week  later,  on  my  way  to 
the  "dollar  meeting"  at  Doctor  June's,  I  turned 
toward  the  Friendship  Carnival  with  some  vestige 
of  my  youth  clinging  to  the  hem  of  things. 

I  gave  my  attention  to  them  all:  The  pop-corn 
wagon,  an  aristocratic  affair  that  looked  like  a  hearse ; 
the  little  painted  canaries  and  love-birds,  so  out  of 
place  and  patient  that  I  thought  they  must  have 
souls  to  form  as  well  as  we;  the  sad  little  live  mon- 
key, incessantly  dodging  white  balls  thrown  at  him 
by  certain  immortals  (who,  when  they  hit  him,  got 
pipes);  and  the  giant  who  flung  "Look!  Look! 
Look!  Look!"  through  a  megaphone,  while  a 


248  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

good  little  dog  toiled  up  a  ladder  and  then  stood 
at  the  ladder's  top  in  a  silence  that  was  all  nice 
reticence  and  dignity.  Also,  the  huge  Saxon  fellow 
who,  at  the  portal  of  the  Arabian  Court  of  Art  and 
Regular  Cafe  Restaurant,  sang  a  love-song  through 
a  megaphone-  " Tenderly,  dearest,  I  breathe  thy 
sweet  name,"  he  hallooed,  with  his  free  hand  beckon- 
ing the  crowd  to  the  Court  of  Art. 

And  then  I  saw  the  Lyric  Dance  Arcade  and 
Indian  Palace  of  Asiatic  Mystery.  And  I  found 
myself  close  to  the  platform,  listening  to  the  cry  of 
a  man  in  gilt  knickerbockers. 

"Ladies!  Gentlemen!  All!"  he  summoned. 
"Never  in  the  history  of  the  show  business  has  there 
been  anything  resemblin'  this.  Come  here  —  here 

—  here  —  here !     See    Zorah,    queen    of  the    West 
and   princess   of  the   East,    who  is  about  to  begin 
one  of  her  most  sublimely  sensational  dances.     See 
her,  see  her,  you  may  never  again  see  her!     Grace- 
ful,   glittering,    genteel.      Graceful,    glittering,    gen- 
te-e-e-1.      I  am  telling  you  about  Zorah,  queen  of  the 
West  and  princess  of  the  East,  in  her  ancient  Asiatic 
dance,  the  most  up-to-date  little  act  in  the  entire 
show  business  to-day.     Here  she  is,  waiting  for  you 

—  you  —  you.     Everybody   that's   got   the    dime!" 
Until  he  ceased,  I  had  hardly  noticed  Zorah  her- 
self, standing  in  the  canvas  portico.     The  woman 
had,  I  then  observed,  a  kind  of  appealing  prettiness 


WHAT   IS   THAT   IN   THINE   HAND?  249 

and  a  genuineness  of,pose.  She  was  looking  out  on 
the  crowd  with  the  usual  manner  of  simulated 
shyness,  but  to  the  shyness  was  given  conviction 
by  an  uplifted  hand,  palm  outward,  hiding  her 
mouth.  I  noted  her  small,  stained  face,  her  splendid 
unbound  hair  —  and  then  a  certain  resemblance 
caught  at  my  heart.  And  I  saw  that  she  was  wear- 
ing a  skirt  made  of  a  man's  plaid  shawl,  and  about 
her  shoulders  was  a  rosy,  old-fashioned  nubia. 
Her  face  and  throat  were  stained,  and  so  were  her 
thin  little  arms  —  but  I  knew  her. 

The  performance,  as  the  man  had  said,  was 
about  to  begin,  and  already  he  was  giving  Zorah 
her  signal  to  go  within.  Somehow  I  bought  a  ticket 
and  hurried  into  the  tent.  The  seats  were  spar- 
ingly occupied,  and  I  saw,  as  I  would  have  guessed, 
no  one  whom  I  knew  in  the  eager,  stamping  little 
audience.  In  their  midst  I  lost  the  slim  figure 
that  had  preceded  me,  until  she  mounted  the  plat- 
form and  swept  before  the  footlights  a  stately 
courtesv. 

And  there,  in  the  smoky  little  tent,  Ellen  Ember 
began  to  dance,  with  her  quite  surprising  grace  — 
as  Pierrette  might  have  danced  in  Carnival.  It 
was  the  charming,  faery  measure  which  she  had 
danced  for  me  in  Miss  Liddy's  dining-room;  and 
as  she  had  sung  to  me  then,  so  now,  in  a  sweet  piping 
voice,  she  sang  her  incongruous  little  song:  — 


250  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

O  Day  of  wind  and  laughter, 
A  goddess  born  are  you, 
Whose  eyes  are  in  the  morning 
Blue  — blue! 

The  slumbrous  noon  your  body  is, 
Your  feet  are  the  shadow's  flight, 
But  the  immortal  soul  of  you 
Is  Night. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  sat  for  hours  in  that  hot 
little  place,  cut  off  from  the  world,  watching.  Again 
and  again,  to  the  brass  blare  of  some  hoiden  tune, 
she  set  the  words  of  the  lyric  that  "she  liked  the 
feel  of,"  and  she  danced  on  and  on.  And  when  at 
last  the  music  shattered  off,  and  she  ceased,  and 
ran  behind  a  screening  canvas,  somehow  I  made  my 
way  forward  through  the  crowd  that  was  clapping 
hands  and  calling  her  back,  and  I  gained  the  place 
where  she  stood. 

When  I  asked  her  to  come  with  me,  she  nodded 
and  smiled,  with  unseeing  eyes,  and  assented  quite 
simply,  and  then  suddenly  sat  down  before  the 
lifted  tent  flap. 

"But  I  must  wait  for  my  money,"  she  said. 
"That's  what  I  came  for  —  my  money.  They 
thought  I'd  never  earn  my  dollar,  but  I  have." 

At  this  I  understood.  And  now  I  marvel  how  I 
talked  at  all  to  the  man  in  gilt  knickerbockers  who 
arrived  and  haggled  over  the  whole  matter. 

Zorah,    he    explained,    the    sure-enough    Zorah, 


WHAT   IS  THAT   IN  THINE   HAND?  251 

had  took  down  sick  in  the  last  place  they  made, 
an'  they'd  had  to  leave  her  behind.  An'  when 
he  told  about  it  down  town  that  morning,  this  little 
piece  here  had  up  an'  offered.  Somethin'  had  to 
be  done  —  he  left  it  to  me  if  they  didn't.  He  felt 
his  duty  to  the  amusement  park  public,  him.  So 
he  had  closed  with  her  for  a  dollar  for  three  fifteen- 
minute  turns  —  he  give  two  shillings  a  turn,  on  the 
usual,  but  she'd  hung  out  stout  for  the  even  money. 
An'  she'd  danced  her  three,  odd  but  satisfactory. 
You  could  hand  'em  queer  things  in  the  show 
business,  if  you  only  dressed  the  part.  Yes,  sure, 
here  was  the  dollar.  Be  on  hand  to-morrow  night  ? 
No  ?  Sufferin'  snakes,  but  was  we  goin'  to  leave 
him  shipwrecked  ? 

Finally  I  got  her  away,  and  skirted  the  market- 
place with  her  dancing  at  my  side,  shaking  her 
silver  dollar  in  her  shut  palms  and  singing :  — 

"Busy,  busy,  busy  all  the  day.  An'  then  I 
earned  my  dollar,  my  dollar  —  they  never  thought  I'd 
earn  my  dollar  .  .  ." 

I  remember,  as  we  struck  into  the  unlighted  block 
where  Miss  Liddy's  house  stood,  that  I  was  strug- 
gling hard  for  my  own  serenity,  so  that  for  a  mo- 
ment I  did  not  observe  that  Ellen  stopped  beside 
me.  But  I  knew  that  she  fell  silent,  and  when  I 
turned  I  saw  her  there  on  the  dark  walk  hurriedly 
twisting  her  splendid  hair  about  her  head.  And  by 


252  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

that  and  by  her  silence  I  understood  that  she  was 
suddenly  herself,  and  of  her  own  mind,  as  we  say. 

On  this,  "Ellen!"  said  I  quickly,  "how  fine  of 
you  to  have  earned  your  Orphans'  Home  dollar 
so  soon.  But  you  have  beaten  us  all !  " 

She  had  contrived  to  fasten  her  hair,  and  I  saw 
her  touching  tentatively  the  folds  of  her  strange 
dress.  And  so  I  made  her  know  what  she  had  done, 
as  gently  as  I  might,  and  with  all  praise  I  stilled  her 
dismay  and  shame.  And  last  I  led  her,  as  I  was 
determined  that  I  would  do,  past  Miss  Liddy's  dark 
little  house  and  on  to  the  home  of  Doctor  June. 

I  think  that  I  would  not  have  dared  take  Ellen, 
just  as  she  was,  in  her  plaid  skirt  and  her  rosy  nubia, 
into  that  black  and  brown  henrietta-cloth  assembly,  if 
I  had  remembered  that  there  was  to  be  a  stranger 
present.  But  this,  in  the  events  of  the  hour,  I  had 
quite  forgotten.  I  remembered  as  I  entered  the 
room  and  came  face  to  face  with  the  Reverend 
Arthur  Bliss,  talking  of  the  figures  for  the  fiscal  year. 
-  and  the  deficit,"  he  was  saying,  "ought  to  be 
made  up  by  us  who  are  so  well  equipped  to  do  it. 
With  Paul,  let  us  fight  the  good  fight  —  of  every 
day.  This  is  to-day's  fight.  Now  let  us  talk  over 
our  various  weapons." 

Doctor  June  looked  thoughtfully  at  his  young 
guest,  and  in  the  older  face  was  a  brooding  tender- 
ness, like  the  tenderness  of  the  father  who  longs 
to  hold  the  child  in  quiet,  in  his  arms. 


WHAT    IS  THAT   IN  THINE   HAND?  253 

"Yes,"  said  Doctor  June,  "'fighting'  is  one  name 
for  it.  I  am  tempted  to  say  that  'drudgery'  is  an- 
other name.  Errantry,  ministry,  service,  or  what- 
ever. It  all  comes  to  the  same  thing:  'What  is 
that  in  thine  hand  ?'  Well,  now,  who  of  us  is  first  ?" 

"I  think,"  said  I  then,  "that  Ellen  Ember  is  first." 

She  would  have  shrunk  back  from  the  doorway 
to  the  passage,  but  I  put  my  arm  about  her,  and 
then  I  told  them.  And  when  I  had  done,  I  remem- 
ber how  she  threw  up  that  pathetic  hand  of  hers, 
palm  outward,  and  this  time  it  was  over  her  eyes. 

"I'm  a  disgrace  to  all  of  you!"  she  said,  sobbing, 
"an*  to  the  whole  Good  Shepherd's  Home.  But 
I  guess  anyhow  it's  all  the  way  I  had.  Seems  like 
I  ain't  got  nothin'  in  the  world  but  my  craziness!" 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  that  rich 
silence  which  flowers  in  the  heart.  And  then  great 
Mis'  Amanda  Toplady  spoke  out,  in  her  deep  voice 
which  now  she  some  way  contrived  to  keep  firm. 

"Well  said!"  she  cried.  "I  come  here  to  say 
I'd  give  a  dollar  outright  to  get  red  o'  the  whole 
thing,  rather'n  to  fuss.  But  now  I  ain't  goin*  to 
stop  at  a  dollar.  Seems  like  a  dollar  for  me  wouldn't 
be  moral.  I'm  goin'  to  sell  some  strawberry  plants 
—  why,  we  got  hundreds  of  'em  to  spare.  I  can 
do  it  by  turnin'  my  hand  over.  An'  I  expec'  the 
Lord  meant  you  should  turn  your  hand  over  to  find 
out  what's  in  it,  anyway." 


254  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

I  think  that  then  we  tried  our  woman's  way  of 
all  talking  at  once,  but  I  remember  how  the  shrill 
voice  of  Abigail  Arnold,  of  the  home  bakery,  rose 
above  the  others:  — 

"Cream  puffs!"  she  cried.  "I  got  a  rush  de- 
mand for  my  cream  puffs  every  Sat'day,  an'  I  ain't 
been  makin'  'em  sole-because  I  hate  to  run  after 
the  milk  an'  set  it.  An'  I  was  goin'  to  get  out  o' 
this  by  givin'  fifty  cents  out  o'  the  bakery  till.  An' 
me  with  my  hands  full  o'  cream  puffs  .  .  ." 

"Hens  —  hens  is  what  mine  is,"  Libbie  Liberty 
was  saying.  "My  grief,  I  got  both  hands  full  o' 
hens.  I  wouldn't  sell  'em  because  I  can't  bear  to 
hev  any  of  'em  killed  —  they're  tame  as  a  bag  o' 
feathers,  all  of  'em.  I  guess  I  ben  settin'  the  hens 
o'  my  hand  over  against  the  heathen  an'  the  orphans. 
An'  now  I'm  goin'  to  sell  spring  chickens.  .  .  ." 

Mis'  Sturgis  in  the  rocking-chair  was  waving 
a  corner  of  her  shawl. 

"C-canaries !"  she  cried.  "I  can  rise  canary- 
birds  an'  sell  'em  a  dollar  apiece  in  the  city.  I 
m-meant  to  slide  out  account  o'  my  health,  but  it 
was  just  because  I  hate  to  muss  'round  b-boilin' 
eggs  for  the  little  ones.  I'll  raise  a  couple  or  two  — 
mebbe  more." 

"My  good  land!"  came  Miss  Liddy  Ember's 
piping  falsetto;  "to  think  o'  my  sittin'  up,  hesitatin', 
when  new  dresses  just  falls  off  the  ends  o'  my  fingers. 
An'  me  in  my  right  mind,  too." 


WHAT   IS  THAT   IN  THINE   HAND?  255 

Dear  Doctor  June  stood  up  among  us,  his  face 
shining. 

"Bless  us,"  he  said,  "Didn't  I  have  some  spiraea 
in  my  hand  right  while  I  stood  talking  to  you  the 
other  afternoon  in  my  garden  ?  And  haven't  I  got 
some  tricolored  Barbary  varieties  of  chrysanthe- 
mums, and  some  hardy  roses  and  one  thing  and 
another  to  make  men  marvel  ?  And  can't  I  sell 
'em  in  the  city  at  a  pretty  profit  ?  What  I've  got 
in  my  hand  is  seeds  and  slips  —  I  see  that  plain 
enough.  And  my  stars,  out  they  go!" 

Mis'  HoIcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss,  Mis'  Mayor 
Uppers,  even  Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes  —  ah,  they 
all  knew  what  to  do,  knew  it  as  if  somebody  had  been 
saying  it  over  and  over,  and  as  if  they  now  first 
listened. 

But  Ellen  Ember  sat  crying,  her  face  buried  in 
her  hands.  And  I  think  that  she  cannot  have  under- 
stood, even  when  Doctor  June  touched  her  hair 
and  said  something  of  the  little  leaven  which  leaveneth 
the  whole  lump. 

Last,  the  Reverend  Arthur  Bliss  arose,  and  there 
was  a  sudden  hush  among  us,  for  it  was  as  if  a  new 
spirit  shone  in  his  strong  young  face. 

"Dear  friends."  he  said,  "dear  friends  .  .  ." 
And  then,  "Lord  God,"  he  prayed  abruptly,  "show 
me  what  is  that  in  my  hand  —  thy  tool  where  I  had 
looked  for  my  sword  ! " 


XVII 

PUT  ON  THY  BEAUTIFUL  GARMENTS 

"I  DONNO,"  Calliope  said,  as,  on  her  return,  we 
talked  about  Ellen  Ember,  "I  guess  I  kind  o'  be- 
lieve in  craziness." 

Calliope's  laugh  often  made  me  think  of  a  blue- 
bird's note,  which  is  to  say,  of  the  laughter  of 
a  child.  Bluebirds  are  the  little  children  among 
birds,  as  robins  are  the  men,  house-wrens  the  women, 
scarlet  tanagers  the  unrealities  and  humming-birds 
the  fairies. 

"Only,"  Calliope  added,  "I  do  say  you'd  ought 
to  hev  some  sort  o'  leadin'  strap  even  to  craziness, 
an'  that  I  ain't  got  an'  never  had.  I  guess  folks 
thinks  I'm  rill  lunar  when  I  take  the  notion.  Only 
thing  comforts  me,  they  don't  know  how  lunar  I 
rilly  can  be." 

Then  she  told  me  about  'Leven. 

"A  shroud,  to  look  rill  nice,"  Calliope  said,  "ought 
to  be   made   as   much   as  you   can  like  a   dress - 
barrin'  t'  you  can't  fit  it.     Mis'  Toplady  an'  Mis' 

256 


PUT   ON   THY   BEAUTIFUL   GARMENTS        257 

Holcomb    an'    I    made    Jennie    Crapwell's   shroud 

—  it  was  white  mull  and  a  little  narrow  lace  edge 
on  a  rill  life-like  collar.     We  finished  it  the  noon 
o'  the  day  after  Jennie  died,  —  you  know  Jennie 
was  Delia's  stepsister  that  they'd  run  away  from  — 
an'  I  brought  it  over  to  my  house  an'  pressed  it  an' 
laid  it  on  the  back  bedroom  bed  —  the  room  I  don't 
use  excep'  for  company  an'  hang  my  clean  dresses 
in  the  closet  off. 

"In  the  afternoon  I  went  up  to  the  City  on  a  few 
little  funeral  urrants,  —  a  crape  veil  for  Jennie's 
mother  an'  like  that,  —  you  know  Jennie  died  first. 
We  wasn't  goin'  to  dress  her  till  the  next  mornin* 

—  her  mother  wanted  we  should  leave  her  till  then 
in  her  little   pink  sacque  she'd  wore,  an'  the  soft 
lavender  cloth  they  use  now  spread  over  her  care- 
less.    An'  we  wanted  to,  too,   because  sence  Mis' 
Jeweler  Sprague  died  nobody  could  do  up  the  Dead's 
hair,  an'  Jennie  wa'n't  the  exception. 

"Mis'  Sprague,  she'd  hed  a  rill  gift  that  way. 
She  always  done  folks'  hair  when  they  died  an' 
she  always  got  it  like  life  —  she  owned  up  how,  after 
she  begun  doin'  it  so  much,  she  used  to  set  in  church 
an'  in  gatherin's  and  find  herself  lookin'  at  the  backs 
of  heads  to  see  if  they  was  two  puffs  or  three,  an' 
whether  the  twist  was  under  to  left  or  over  to  right 

—  so's  she'd  know,  if  the  time  come.     But  none  of 
us  could  get   Jennie's  to  look  right.     We  studied 


258  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

her  pictures  an'  all  too,  but  best  we  could  do  we  got 
it  all  drawed  back,  abnormal. 

"I  was  'most  all  the  afternoon  in  the  City,  an' 
it  was  pretty  warm  —  a  hot  April  followin'  on  a  raw 
March.  I  stood  waitin'  for  the  six  o'clock  car  an', 
my  grief,  I  was  tired.  My  feet  ached  like  night 
in  preservin'  time.  An'  I  was  thinkin'  how  like 
a  dunce  we  are  to  live  a  life  made  up  mostly  of 
urrants  an'  feetache  followin'.  Tet,  after  all,  the 
right  sort  o'  urrants  an'  like  that  is  life  —  an',  if 
they  do  ache,  'tain't  like  your  feet  was  your  soul. 
Well,  an'  just  before  the  car  come,  up  arrove 
the  girl. 

"  I  guess  she  was  towards  thirty,  but  she  seemed 
even  older,  'count  o'  bein'  large  an'  middlin'  knowin'. 
First  I  see  her  was  a  check  gingham  sleeve  reachin' 
out  an'  she  was  elbowed  up  clost  by  me.  'Say/ 
she  says,  'couldn't  you  gimme  a  nickel?  I'm 
starved  hollow.'  She  didn't  look  it  special  — 
excep'  as  thin,  homely  folks  always  looks  sort  o' 
hungry.  An'  she  was  homely  —  kind  o'  coarse 
made,  more  like  a  shed  than  a  dwellin'  house. 
Her  dress  an'  little  flappy  cape  hed  the  looks  o' 
bein'  held  on  by  her  shoulders  alone,  an'  her  hands 
was  midnight  dirty. 

"I  was  feelin'  just  tired  enough  to  snap  her  up. 

"'A  nickel!'  s'l,  crisp,  'give  you  a  nickel!  An* 
what  you  willin'  to  give  me?' 


PUT   ON  THY   BEAUTIFUL   GARMENTS        259 

"She  looked  sort  o'  surprised  an*  foolish  an'  her 
mouth  open. 

"'Huh?'  s'she,  intelligent  as  the  back  o'  some- 
thin'. 

"'You,'  I  says,  'are  some  bigger  an'  some  strong- 
er'n  me.  What  you  goin'  to  give  me  ? ' 

"Well,  sir,  the  way  she  dropped  her  arms  down 
sort  o'  hit  at  me,  it  was  so  kitten  helpless.  I  took 
that  in  rather  than  her  silly,  sort  o'  insultin'  laugh. 
' '  I  can't  do  nothinY  she  told  me  —  an'  all  to  once 
I  saw  how  it  was,  an'  that  that  was  what  ailed  her. 
I  didn't  stop  to  think  no  more'n  as  if  I  didn't  hev 
a  brain  to  my  name.  'Well,'  I  says,  'I'll  give  you 
a  nickel.  Leastways,  I'll  spend  one  on  you.  You 
take  this  car,'  I  says,  'an'  come  on  over  to  Friend- 
ship with  me.  An'  we'll  see.' 

"She  come  without  a  word,  like  goin'  or  stayin* 
was  all  of  a  piece  to  her,  an'  her  relations  all  dead. 
When  I  got  her  on  the  car  I  begun  to  see  what  a  fool 
thing  I'd  done,  seemin'ly.  An'  yet,  I  donno.  I 
wouldn't  'a'  left  a  month-old  baby  there  on  the 
corner.  I'd  'a'  bed  to  'a'  done  for  that,  like  you  do 
—  I  s'pose  to  keep  the  world  goin'.  An'  that  woman 
was  just  as  helpless  as  a  month-old.  Some  are. 
I  s'pose  likely,"  Calliope  said  thoughtfully,  "we 
got  more  door-steps  than  we  think,  if  we  get  'em 
all  located. 

"When  we  got  to  my  house  I  pumped  her  a  pitcher 


26o  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

o'  water  an'  pointed  to  the  back  bedroom  door. 
'First  thing/  s'l,  blunt,  'clean  up'  —  bein'  as  I  was 
too  tired  to  be  very  delicate.  'An','  s'l,  'you'll  see 
a  clean  wrapper  in  the  closet.  Put  it  on.'  Then 
I  went  to  spread  supper  —  warmed-up  potatoes  an' 
bread  an'  butter  an'  pickles  an'  sauce  an'  some 
cocoanut  layer  cake.  It  looked  rill  good,  with  the 
linen  clean,  though  common. 

"I  donno  how  I  done  it,  excep'  I  was  so  ram- 
feezled.  But  I  clear  forgot  Jennie  Crapweli's 
shroud,  layin'  ready  on  the  back  bedroom  bed. 
An*  land,  land,  when  the  woman  come  out,  if  she 
didn't  hev  it  on. 

"I  tell  you,  when  I  see  her  come  walkin'  out 
towards  the  supper  table  with  them  fresh-ironed 
ruffles  framin'  in  her  face,  I  felt  sort  o'  kitterin'- 
headed  —  like  my  i-dees  had  fell  over  each  other 
to  get  away  from  me.  The  shroud  fit  her  pretty 
good,  too,  barrin'  it  was  a  mite  long-skirted. 
An'  somehow,  it  give  her  a  look  almost  like  dignity. 
Come  to  think  of  it,  I  donno  but  a  shroud  does  be- 
come most  folks  —  like  they  was  rilly  well-dressed 
at  last. 

"She  come  an'  set  down  to  table,  quiet  as  you 
please  —  an'  differ'nt.  Your  clothes  don't  make 
you,  by  any  means,  but  they  just  do  sort  o'  hem 
your  edges,  or  rhyme  the  ends  of  you,  or  give  a  nice, 
even  bake  to  your  crust  —  I  donno.  They  do 


PUT   ON  THY   BEAUTIFUL   GARMENTS         26v 

somethin'.  An'  the  shroud  hed  done  it  to  that 
girl.  She  looked  rill  leaved  out. 

"  How  she  did  eat.  It  give  me  some  excuse  not  to 
say  anything  to  her  till  she  was  through  with  the  first 
violence.  I  did  try  to  say  grace,  but  she  says: 
'Who  you  speakin'  to  ?  Me  ?'  An'  I  didn't  let  on. 
I  thought  I  wouldn't  start  in  on  her  moral  manners. 
I  just  set  still  an'  kep'  thinkin':  You  poor  thing. 
Why,  you  poor  thing.  You're  nothin'  but  a  piece 
o'  God's  work  that  wants  doin'  over  —  like  a  back 
yard  or  a  poor  piece  o'  road  or  a  rubbish  place,  or 
sim'lar.  An'  this  tidyin'  up  is  what  we're  for,  as 
I  see  it  —  only  seme  of  us  lays  a-holt  of  our  own 
settin'  rooms  an'  butt'ry  cupboards  an'  sullars  an' 
cleans  away  on  them  for  dear  life,  over  an'  over,  an' 
forgets  the  rest.  I  ain't  objectin'  to  good  house- 
keepin'  at  all,  but  what  I  say  is :  Get  your  dust- 
rag  big  enough  to  wipe  up  somethin'  besides  your 
own  dust.  The  Lord,  He's  a-housekeepin'  too. 

"So,  with  that  i-dee,  I  got  above  the  shroud  an' 
I  begun  on  the  woman  some  like  she  was  my  kitchen 
closet  in  the  spring  o'  the  year. 

"'What's  your  name?'  s'L 

'"'Leven,'  s'she. 

"'Leaven,'  s'l,  'like  the  Bible?' 

"'Huh?'  s'she. 

'"Why  — oh,  'leven','  s'l,  'that  ain't  a  name 
at  all.  That's  a  number.' 


262  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"'I  know  it,'  s'she,  indiffer'nt,  'that  was  me. 
I  was  the  Seventh,  an*  they'd  run  out  a'ready.' 

"'For  the  land/  s'l,  simple. 

"An'  that  just  about  summed  her  up.  They 
seemed  to  'a'  run  out  o'  everything,  time  she  come. 

"She  hadn't  been  taught  a  thing  but  eat  an'  drink. 
Them  was  her  only  arts.  Excep'  for  one  thing: 
When  I  ask'  her  what  she  could  do,  if  any,  she  says 
like  she  had  on  the  street  corner:  — 

"'I  can't  do  nothin'.     I  donno  no  work.' 

"'You  think  it  over,'  s'l.  She  had  rill  capable 
hands  —  them  odd,  undressed-lookin'  hands  —  I 
donno  if  you  know  what  I  mean  ? 

"'Well,'  s'she,  sort  o'  sheepish,  'I  can  comb  hair. 
Ma  was  allus  sick  an'  me  an'  Big  Lil  —  she's  the 
same  floor  —  combed  her  hair  for  her.  But  I  could 
do  it  nicest/ 

"Wan't  that  a  curious  happenin'  —  an'  Jennie 
Crapwell  layin'  dead  with  her  hair  drawn  tight 
back  because  none  of  us  could  do  it  up  human  ? 

'"Could  you  when  dead?'  s'L  'I  mean  when 
them  that  has  the  hair  is?' 

"An'  with  that  the  girl  turns  pallor  white. 

"'Oh  .  .  .'  s'she,  'I  ain't  never  touched  the 
dead.  But,'  s'she,  sort  o'  defiant  at  somethin', 
'I  could  do  it,  I  guess,  if  you  want  I  should.' 

"Kind  o'  like  a  handle  stickin'  out  from  what 
would  'a'  been  her  character,  if  she'd  hed  one,  that 


PUT  ON  THY   BEAUTIFUL   GARMENTS        263 

was,  I  thought.  An',  too,  I  see  what  it'd  mean  to 
her  if  she  knew  she  was  wearin'  a  shroud,  casual  as 
calico. 

"But  when  I  told  her  about  Jennie  Crapwell, 
an'  how  they  had  a  good  picture,  City-made,  of  her 
side  head,  she  took  it  quite  calm. 

"'I'll  try  it,'  she  says,  bein'  as  she'd  done  her 
ma's  hair  layin'  down,  though  livin'.  <Big  Lil 
always  helps  dress  'Em,'  she  says, '  an'  I  guess  I  could 
do  Their  hair.' 

"I  got  right  up  from  the  supper  table  an'  took 
'Leven  over  to  Crapwell' s  without  waitin'  for  the 
dishes.  But  early  as  I  was,  the  rest  was  there 
before  me.  I  guess  they  was  full  ten  to  Crapwell's 
when  we  got  there,  an'  'Leven  an'  I,  we  walked 
into  the  sittin'-room  right  in  the  midst  of  'em  — 
that  is,  of  what  wasn't  clearin'  table  or  doin'  dishes 
or  sweepin'  upstairs.  Mis'  Timothy  Toplady  an' 
Mis'  Holcomb-that-was-Mame- Bliss  was  the  group 
nearest  the  door  —  an'  the  both  of  'em  reco'nized 
that  shroud  the  minute  they  clamped  their  eyes  on 
it.  But  me,  bein'  back  o'  'Leven,  I  laid  my  front 
finger  on  to  my  shut  lips  with  a  motion  that  must 
'a'  been  armies  with  banners.  An'  they  see  me  an' 
kep'  still,  sudden  an'  all  pent  up. 

'This,'   s'l,   'is  a   friend  o'   mine      She's  goin' 
to  do  up  Jennie's  hair  from  her  City  photograph.' 

"Then  I  hustled  'Leven  into  the  parlour  where 


264  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

Jennie  was  layin'  under  the  soft  lavender  cloth. 
Nobody  was  in  there  but  a  few  flowers,  sent  early. 
An*  it  was  a  west  window  an*  open,  an*  the  sky  all 
sunset  —  like  the  End.  'Leven  hung  back,  but  I 
took  her  by  the  hand  an'  we  went  an'  looked  down 
at  Jennie  in  that  nice,  gentlin',  after-supper  light  — 
'Leven  in  Jennie's  shroud  an'  neither  of  'em  knew  it. 

"An'  all  out  o'  the  air  somethin'  says  to  me,  Now 
—  now  —  like  it  will  when  you  get  so's  you  listen. 
I  always  think  it's  like  the  Lord  had  pressed  His 
bell  somewheres  for  help  in  His  housekeepin'  — • 
oh,  because  how  He  needs  it ! 

"So  I  says,  ''Leven,  you  never  see  anybody  dead 
before.     What's  the  differ'nce  between  her  an'  you  ?' 
"She  can't  move,'  'Leven  says,  starin'  down. 

"'Yes,  sir,'  s'l,  'that's  it.  She's  through  doin' 
the  things  she  was  born  to  do,  an'  you  ain't.' 

"With  that  'Leven  looks  at  me. 

"I  cant  do  nothin','  she  says  again. 
"Why,  then,'  says  I,  brisk,  'you're  as  good  as 
dead,  an'  we'd  best  bury  you,  too.     What  do  you 
think  the  Lord  wants  you  'round  for?' 

"An'  she  didn't  say  nothin',  only  stood  fingerin' 
the  shroud  she  wore. 

"Here,'  s'l,  then,  'is  the  comb.  Here  is  Jennie's 
picture.  The  pins  is  in  her  hair.  Take  it  down 
an'  do  it  over.  There's  somethin'  to  do  an'  ease 
her  mother  about  Jennie  not  lookin'  natural.' 


PUT  ON  THY   BEAUTIFUL  GARMENTS        265 

"An*  with  that  I  marched  myself  out  an*  shut  the 
door. 

"Mis'  Toplady  an'  Mis'  Holcomb  was  high-eye- 
brows on  the  other  side  of  it,  an'  they  come  at  me 
like  tick  lookin'  for  tock. 

"'Well,'  s'l,  'it  is  Jennie's  shroud  she's  wearin'. 
But  I  guess  we'll  hev  to  bury  'Leven  in  it  to  get  it 
underground.  7  won't  tell  her.' 

"I  giv^  em  to  understand  as  much  as  I  wanted 
they  shbuld  know,  —  not  includin'  exactly  how  I 
met  'Leven.  An'  we  consulted,  vague  an'  emphatic, 
like  women  will.  There  wasn't  time  to  make  an- 
other one  an'  do  it  up  an'  all.  An'  anyway,  I  was 
bound  not  to  let  the  poor  thing  know  what  she'd 
done.  The  others  hated  to,  too  —  I  donno  if  you'll 
know  how  we  felt  ?  I  donno  but  mebbe  you  sense 
things  like  that  better  when  you  live  in  a  little  town. 

"'Well  said!'  Mis'  Amanda  bursts  out  after  a 
while,  'I'm  reg'lar  put  to  it.  I  can  scare  up  an 
excuse,  or  a  meal,  or  a  church  entertainment  on  as 
short  notice  as  any,  but  I  declare  if  I  ever  trumped 
up  a  shroud.  An'  you  know  an'  I  know,'  she  says, 
'poor  Jennie'd  be  the  livin'  last  to  want  to  take  it 
off'n  the  poor  girl.' 

"An','  s'l,  'even  if  I  should  give  her  somethin' 
else  to  put  on  in  the  mornin',  an'  sly  this  into  the 
coffin  on  Jennie,  I  donno's  I'd  want  to.  The 
shroud,'  s'l,  "s  been  wore.' 


266  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"  Mis'  Holcomb  sort  o'  kippered  —  some  like  a 
shiver. 

"'I  donno  what  it  is  about  its  bein'  wore  first/ 
s'she,  'but  I  guess  it  ain't  so  much  what  it  is  as  what 
it  ain't.  Or  sim'lar.' 

"An*  I  knew  what  she  meant.  I've  noticed  that, 
often. 

"  In  the  end  we  done  what  I'd  favoured  from 
the  beginnin' :  We  ask'  Mis'  Crapwell  if  \vt  couldn't 
bury  Jennie  in  her  white  mull. 

"A  shroud,'  says  Mis'  Crapwell,  grievin',  'made 
by  a  dressmaker  with  buttons?' 

" '  It's  the  part  o'  Jennie  that  wore  it  before  that'll 
wear  it  now,'  I  says,  reasonable,  'an'  her  soul  never 
was  buttoned  into  it  anyways.  An'  it  won't  be  now.' 

"An'  after  a  while  we  made  her  see  it,  an'  that 
was  the  first  regular  dress  ever  wore  to  a  ,buryin' 
in  Friendship,  by  the  one  that  was  the  one. 

"HI  never  forget  when  'Leven  come  out  o'  that 
room,  after  she'd  got  through.  We  all  went  in  — 
Mis'  Crapwell  an'  Mis'  Toplady  an'  Mis'  Holcomb 
an'  I,  an'  some  more.  An'  I  took  'Leven  back  in 
with  me.  An'  as  soon  as  I  see  Jennie  I  see  it  was 
Jennie  come  back  —  hair  just  as  natural  as  if  it 
was  church  Sunday  mornin'  an'  her  in  her  pew. 
We  all  knew  it  was  so,  an'  we  all  said  so,  an'  Mis' 
Crapwell,  she  just  out  cryin'  like  she'd  broke  her 
heart.  An'  when  the  first  of  it  was  over,  she  went 


PUT  ON  THY   BEAUTIFUL   GARMENTS        267 

acrost  to  'Leven,  an'  'Oh,'  s'she,  'you've  give  her 
back  to  me.  You  give  her  back.  God  bless  you!' 
she  says  to  her.  An'  when  I  looked  at  'Leven, 
I  see  the  'Huh  ?'  look  wasn't  there  at  all.  But  they 
was  a  little  somethin'  on  her  face  like  she  was  proud, 
an'  didn't  quite  want  to  show  it  —  along  of  her 
features  or  complexion  or  somethin'  never  havin' 
had  it  spread  on  'em  before. 

"  Nex'  mornin'  o'  course  'Leven  put  on  the  shroud 
again.  I  must  say  it  give  me  the  creeps  to  see  her 
wearin'  it,  even  if  it  did  look  like  everybody's  dresses. 
I  donno  what  it  is  about  such  things,  but  they  make 
somethin'  scrunch  inside  o'  you.  Like  when  they 
got  a  new  babtismal  dish  for  the  church,  an'  the 
minister's  sister  took  the  old  one  for  a  cake  dish. 

"S'l,  to  'Leven,  after  breakfast:  — 

"We're  goin'  to  line  Jennie's  grave  this  mornin'. 
I  guess  you'd  like  to  go  with  us,  wouldn't  you?' 

But  I  see  her  face  with  the  old  look,  like  the  back 
o'  somethin',  or  like  you'd  rubbed  down  the  page 
when  the  ink  was  wet,  an'  had  blurred  the  whole 
thing  unreadable.  An'  I  judged  that,  like  enough, 
she  knew  nothin'  whatever  about  grave-linin',  done 
civilized. 

'"I  mean,  I  thought  mebbe  you'd  like  to  help  us 
some,'  I  says. 

"I  would!'  s'she,  at  that,  rill  ready  an'  quick. 
An'  it  come  to  me  't  she  knew  now  what  help  meant. 


268  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

She'd  learnt  it  the  night  before  from  Jennie's  mother 
—  like  she'd  learnt  to  answer  a  bell  when  Somebody 
pressed  it.  Only,  o'  course  she  never  guessed  Who 
it  was  ringin'  it  —  like  you  don't  at  first. 

"So  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  take  her  to  the 
cemet'ry.  We  done  the  work  up  first,  an'  'Leven 
spried  'round  for  me,  wipin'  the  dishes  with  the 
wipin'  cloth  in  a  bunch,  an'  settin'  'em  up  wrong 
places.  An'  I  did  hev  to  go  in  the  butt'ry  an'  laugh 
to  see  her  sweep  up.  She  swep'  up  some  like  her 
broom  was  a  branch  an'  the  wind  a-switchin'  it. 

"Mis'  Toplady  an'  Mis'  Holcomb  stopped  by 
for  us,  with  the  white  cotton  cloth  an'  the  tacks, 
an'  by  nine  o'clock  we  was  over  to  the  cemet'ry. 
The  grave  was  all  dug  an'  lined  with  nice  pine  boards, 
an'  the  dirt  piled  'longside,  an'  the  boards  for  coverin' 
an'  the  spades  layin'  near.  Zittelhof  was  just 
leavin',  havin'  got  in  his  pulley  things  to  lower  'em. 
Zittelhof's  rill  up  to  date.  Him  an'  Mink,  the 
barber,  keep  runnin'  each  other  to  see  who  can  get 
the  most  citified  things.  No  sooner'd  Zittelhof 
get  his  pulleys  than  Mink,  he  put  in  shower-baths. 
An'  when  Mink  bought  a  buzz  fan,  Zittelhof  sent 
for  the  lavender  cloth  to  spread  over  'em  before 
the  coffin  comes.  It  makes  it  rill  nice  for  Friend- 
ship. 

"<  Who's  goin  to  get  down  in  ?'  says  Mis'  Toplady, 
shak.n'  out  the  cloth. 


PUT  ON  THY   BEAUTIFUL  GARMENTS        269 

Mis'  Toplady  always  use'  to  be  the  one,  but  she 
can't  do  that  any  more  since  she  got  so  heavy.     An* 
Mis'  Holcomb's  rheumatism  was  bad  that  day  an 
the  grave  middlin'  damp,  so  it  was  for  me  to  do. 
An'  all  of  a  sudden  I  says :  — 

""Leven,  you  just  get  down  in  there,  will  you? 
An'  we'll  tell  you  how.' 

"'In  the  grave?'  says  'Leven. 

"I  guess  I'm  some  firm-mannered,  just  by  takin' 
things  for  granted,  an'  I  says,  noddin' :  — 

"'Yes.  You're  the  lightest  on  your  feet,'  I  says 
—  an'  I  sort  o'  shoved  at  her,  bird  to  young,  an' 
she  jumped  down  in,  not  bein'  able  to  help  it. 

"'Here,'  s'l,  flingin'  her  an  end  o'  cloth,  'tack 
it  'round  smooth  to  them  boards.' 

"'Mother  o'  God,'  says  she,  swallowin'  in  her 
breath. 

"But  she  done  it.  She  knelt  down  there  in  the 
grave,  her  poor,  frowzy  head  showin,'  an'  she  tacked 
away  like  we  told  her  to,  an'  she  never  said  another 
word.  Mis'  Toplady  an'  Mis'  Holcomb  didn't  say 
nothin',  either,  only  looked  at  me  mother-knowin'. 
Them  two  —  Mis'  Toplady  more'n  anybody  in 
Friendship,  acts  like  bein'  useful  is  bein'  alive  an' 
nothin'  else  is.  They  see  what  I  was  doin',  well 
enough  —  only  I  donno's  they'd  'a'  called  it  what  I 
did,  'bout  the  Lord's  housekeepin'  an  all.  An' 
I  knew  I  couldn't  gentle  'Leven  into  the  /-dee,  but 


270  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

I  judged  I  could  shock  it  into  her  —  same  as  her 
an*  the  Big  Lil  kind  have  to  hev.  Some  folks  you 
hev  to  shoot  i-dees  at,  muzzle  to  brain. 

"I  donno  if  you've  took  it  in  that  when  you're 
in  a  grave,  or  'round  one,  your  talk  sort  o'  veers 
that  way  ?  Ours  did.  Mis'  Banker  Mason's  baby 
had  just  died  in  March,  an'  the  choir'd  made  an 
awful  scandal,  breakin'  down  in  the  fifth  verse  of 
'One  poor  flower  has  drooped  and  faded.'  They'd 
stood  'em  in  a  half  circle  where  they  could  look  right 
down  on  the  little  thing.  An'  when  the  choir  got  to 

"  But  we  feel  no  thought  of  sadness 
For  our  friend  is  happy  now, 
She  has  knelt  in  heartfelt  gladness 
Where  the  holy  angels  bow, 

they  just  naturally  broke  down  an'  cried,  every  one 
of 'em.  An'  then  the  little  coffin  was  some  to  blame, 
too  —  it  was  sort  of  a  little  Lord  Fauntleroy  coffin, 
with  a  broad  white  puff  around,  an'  most  anybody 
would  a'  cried  when  they  looked  in  it,  even  empty. 
But  Doctor  June,  he  just  stood  up  calm,  like  his 
soul  was  his  body,  an'  he  begun  to  pray  like  God 
was  there  in  the  parlour,  Him  feelin'  as  bad  as  we, 
an'  not  doin'  the  child's  death  Himself  at  all,  like 
we'd  been  taught  —  but  sorrowin'  with  us,  for  some 
o'  His  housekeepin'  gone  wrong.  An'  by  the  time 
Banker  an'  Mis'  Mason  got  in  the  close'  carriage 
an'  took  the  little  thing's  casket  on  their  knees  — 


PUT  ON  THY   BEAUTIFUL  GARMENTS        271 

you  know  we  do  that  here,  not  havin'  any  white 
hearse  —  why,  we  was  all  feelin'  like  God  Almighty 
was  hand  in  hand  in  sorrow  with  us.  An'  it's  never 
left  me  since.  I  know  He  is. 

"We  talked  that  over  while  'Leven  tacked  the 
evergreen  on  the  white  cloth.  An'  I  know  Mis' 
Toplady  says  she'd  stayed  with  Mis'  Banker  Mason 
so  much  since  then  that  she  felt  God  had  sort  o' 
singled  her  —  Mis'  Toplady  —  out,  to  give  her  a 
chanst  to  do  His  work  o'  comfortin'.  'I've  just  let 
my  house  go,'  s'she,  'an'  I've  got  the  grace  to  see 
it  don't  matter  if  I  have.'  Mis'  Toplady  ain't  one 
o'  them  turtle  women  that  their  houses  is  shells 
on  'em,  burden  to  back.  She's  more  the  bird  kind 
—  neat  little  nest  under,  an'  wings  to  be  used 
every  day,  somewheres  in  the  blue. 

"So  'Leven  done  all  Jennie  Crapwell's  grave. 
She  must  'a  been  down  in  it  an  hour.  An'  when  she 
got  through,  an'  looked  up  at  us  from  down  in  the 
green,  an'  wearin'  Jennie's  shroud  an'  all,  I  just 
put  out  my  hands,  to  help  her  up,  an'  I  thought, 
almost  like  prayin' :  'Oh,  raise  up,  you  Dead,  an' 
come  forth  —  come  forth/  Sort  o'  like  Lazarus. 
An'  I  know  I  wasn't  sacrilegious  from  what  happened ; 
for  when  Mis'  Toplady  an'  Miss  Holcomb  come 
up  to  'Leven  an'  says,  rill  warm,  how  well  she'd 
done  it  an'  how  much  obliged  they  was,  I  see  that 
little  look  on  the  girl's  face  again  like  —  oh,  like 


272  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

she'd  wrote  somethin'  on  the  blurry  page,  somethin' 
you  could  read. 

"  Jennie  was  buried  that  afternoon  at  sharp  three. 
It  was  a  sad  funeral,  'count  o'  Jennie's  trouble, 
an'  all.  But  it  was  a  rill  big  funeral  an'  nicely 
conducted,  if  I  do  say  that  done  the  managin'. 
Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes  seated  the  guests  —  ain't 
she  the  kind  that  always  seems  to  be  one  to  stand 
in  the  hall  at  funerals  with  her  hat  off,  to  consult 
about  chairs  an'  where  shall  the  minister  lay  his 
Bible,  an'  who'd  ought  to  be  invited  to  set  next  the 
bier  ?  An'  she  always  takes  charge  o'  the  flowers. 
Mis'  Sykes  can  tell  you  who  sent  what  flowers  to 
who  for  years  back,  an  the  wordin'  on  the  pillows. 
She's  got  a  rill  gift  that  way.  But  I  done  the 
managin'  behind  the  scenes,  an'  it  went  off  rill  well, 
an'  I  got  the  minister  to  drop  a  flower  on  Jennie's 
coffin  instead  of  a  pinch  o'  dirt.  An'  one  chair 
I  did  see  to:  right  in  the  bay,  near  Jennie,  I  set 
'Leven  —  I  guess  with  just  a  kind  of  a  blind  feelin' 
that  I  wanted  to  get  her  near.  Near  the  flowers 
or  the  singin'  or  what  the  minister  said  or,  — 
oh,  near  the  mystery  an'  God  speakin'  from  the 
dead,  like  He  does.  Anyway,  I  shoved  her  into  the 
bay  window  back  o'  the  casket,  an'  there  I  left  her 
in  behind  a  looped-Hack  Nottingham  —  settin'  in 
Jennie's  shroud  an'  didn't  either  of  'em  know  it. 

"It  was  a  queer  chapter  for  Doctor  June  to  read, 


PUT   ON   THY   BEAUTIFUL   GARMENTS         273 

some  said  —  but  I  guess  holy  things  often  is  queer, 
only  we're  better  cut  out  to  see  queer  than  holy. 
Anyway,  his  voice  went  all  mellow  and  gentle, 
boomin'  out  soft  an'  in  his  throat,  all  over  the  house. 
It  was  that  about  ..."  Calliope  quoted  piece- 
meal :  — 

"'Awake,  awake,  put  on  thy  strength  .  .  .  put 
on  thy  beautiful  garments,  O  Jerusalem,  the  holy 
city  .  .  .  shake  thyself  from  the  dust,  arise  and 
sit  down  .  .  .  loose  thyself  from  the  bonds  of  thy 
neck,  O  captive  daughter  of  Zion  .  .  .  how  beauti- 
ful upon  the  mountains  are  the  feet  of  him  that 
bringeth  good  tidings,  that  publisheth  peace,  that 
bringeth  good  tidings  of  good,  that  publisheth  sal- 
vation ;  that  saith  unto  Zion :  Thy  God  reigneth ! 
Break  forth  into  joy,  sinb  together  .  .  .  depart  ye, 
depart  ye,  go  ye  out  from  thence,  touch  no  un- 
clean thing  ...  be  ye  clean,  that  bear  the  ves- 
sels of  the  Lord.  .  .  .' 

"Sometimes  a  thing  you've  heard  always  will 
come  at  you  sudden,  like  a  star  had  fell  on  your  very 
head.  It  was  that  way  with  me  that  day.  'Put 
on  thy  beautiful  garments  .  .  .'  I  says  over,  'Put 
'em  on  —  put  'em  on!'  An'  all  the  while  I  was 
seein'  to  the  supper  for  the  crowd  that  was  goin'  to 
be  there  —  train  relations  an'  all  —  I  kep'  thinkin* 
that  over  like  a  song  —  'Put  'em  on  —  put  'em  on 
—  put  'em  on !'  An'  it  was  in  me  yet,  like  a  song 

T 


274  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

had  come  to  life  there,  when  they'd  all  gone  to  the 
cemetery  —  'Leven  with  'em  —  an*  I'd  got  through 
straightenin'  the  chairs  —  or  rather  crookedin'  'em 
some  into  loops  from  funeral  lines  —  an*  slipped 
over  to  my  house,  back  way.  For  I  ain't  sunk  so 
low  as  to  be  that  sympathetic  that  I'll  stay  to  supper 
after  the  funeral  just  because  I've  helped  at  it. 
There's  a  time  to  mourn  an'  there's  a  time  to  eat, 
an'  you  better  do  one  with  the  bereaved  an'  slip 
home  to  your  own  butt'ry  shelf  for  the  other,  / 
say. 

"I  was  just  goin'  through  the  side  yard  to  my 
house  when  I  see  'em  comin'  back  from  the  cemetery, 
an'  I  waited  a  little,  lookin'  to  see  what  was  sproutin* 
in  the  flower-bed.  It  was  a  beautiful,  beautiful 
evenin'  —  when  I  think  o.  it  it  seems  I  can  breathe 
it  in  yet.  It  was  'most  sunset,  an'  it  was  like  the 
West  was  a  big,  blue  bowl  with  eggs  beat  up  in  it, 
yolks  an'  whites,  some  gold  an'  some  feathery. 
But  the  bowl  wa'n't  big  enough,  an'  it  had  spilled 
over  an'  flooded  the  whole  world  yellowish,  or  all 
floatin'  shinin'  in  the  air.  It  was  like  the  world 
had  done  the  way  the  Bible  said  —  put  on  its  beau- 
tiful garments.  I  was  thinkin'  that  when  'Leven 
come  in  the  front  gate.  She  was  walkin'  fast, 
an'  lookin'  up,  not  down.  Her  cheeks  was  some 
pink,  an'  the  light  made  the  shroud  all  pinkey,  an' 
she  looked  rill  nice.  An'  I  marched  straight  up 


PUT  ON  THY   BEAUTIFUL   GARMENTS        275 

to  her,  feelin'  like  I  was  swimmin'  in  that  lovely 
light:  — 

"''Leven,'  I  says,  "Leven —  it's  like  the  whole 
world  was  made  over  to-night,  ain't  it?' 

"'Yes,'  says  she  —  an'  not  'Huh?'  at  all. 

"'Seems  like  another  world  than  when  we  met 
on  the  street  corner,  don't  it?'  I  says. 

"'Yes,'  she  says  again,  noddin' — an'  I  thought 
how  she'd  stood  there  on  the  sidewalk,  hungry  an'  her 
hands  all  black,  an'  believin'  she  couldn't  do  any- 
thing at  all.  An'  it  seemed  like  I  hed  sort  o' 
scrabbled  her  up  an'  held  her  over  a  precipice,  an'  said 
to  her :  '  See  the  dead.  Look  at  yourself.  Come  forth 
—  come  forth  !  Clean  up  —  do  somethin'  to  help, 
anything,  if  it's  only  tackin'  on  evergreens  an'  doin' 
the  Dead's  hair  up  becomin'  — '  oh,  I  s'pose,  rilly, 
I  was  sayin'  to  her :  '  Put  on  thy  beautiful  garments. 
Awake.  Put  on  thy  strength.'  Only  it  come  out 
some  differ'nt  from  me  than  it  come  from  Isaiah. 

"  I  took  a-hold  of  her  hand  —  quite  clean  by  the 
second  day's  washin',  though  I  ain't  much  given  to 
the  same  (not  meanin'  second  day's  washin's). 
I  didn't  know  quite  what  I  was  goin'  to  say,  but 
just  then  I  looked  up  Daphne  Street,  an'  I  see  'em 
all  sprinkled  along  comin'  from  the  funeral  — 
neighbours  an'  friends  an'  just  folks  —  an*  most 
of  'em  livin'  in  Friendship  peaceful  an'  —  barrin' 
slopovers  —  doin'  the  level  best  they  could.  Not 


276  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

all  of  'em  hearin'  the  Bell,  you  understand,  nor 
knowin'  it  by  name  if  they  did  hear.  But  in  little 
ways,  an'  because  it  was  secunt  nature,  just 
helpin',  helpin',  helpin'  .  .  .  Mis'  Holcomb-that- 
was-Mame- Bliss,  Liddy  Ember,  Abagail  Arnold  an* 
her  husband,  that  was  alive  then,  hurryin'  to  open 
the  home  bakery  to  catch  the  funeral  trade  on  the 
funeral's  way  back,  Amanda  an'  Timothy  Toplady 
rattlin'  by  in  the  wagon  an'  'most  likely  scrappin' 
over  the  new  springs  .  .  .  an'  all  of  'em  salt  good 
at  heart. 

"Leven/  I  says,  out  o'  the  fulness  o'  the  lump 
in  my  throat,  'stay  here  with  us.  Find  somethin' 
honest  you  can  do,  an'  stay  here  an'  do  it.  Mebbe,' 
I  told  her,  'you  could  start  dressin'  the  Dead's  hair. 
An'  help  us,'  I  says,  'help  us.' 

"She  looked  up  in  my  eyes  quick,  an'  my  heart 
stood  still.  An'  then  it  sunk  down  an'  down. 

"'I  want  to  go  back  .  .  .'  she  says,  'I  want  to 
go  back  .  .  .'  but  I'm  glad  to  remember  that 
even  for  a  minute  I  didn't  doubt  God's  position, 
because  I  remember  thinkin'  swift  that  if  Him  an' 
I  had  failed  it  wasn't  for  no  inscrutable  reason  o' 
His,  but  He  was  feelin'  just  as  bad  over  it  as  I 
was,  an'  worse.  .  .  .  <I  want  to  go  back,'  'Leven 
finished  up,  'an'  get  Big  Lil,  too.' 

"Oh,  an'  I  tell  you  the  song  in  me  just  crowded 
the  rest  o'  me  out  of  existence.  I  felt  like  a  psalm 


PUT   ON  THY   BEAUTIFUL   GARMENTS         277 

o'  David,  bein'  sung.  I  hadn't  dreamed  she'd  be 
like  that  —  I  hadn't  dreamed  it.  Why,  some  folks, 
Christian  an'  in  a  pew,  never  come  to  the  part  o' 
their  lives  where  they  want  to  go  back  an'  get  a 
Big  Lil,  too. 

"We  stood  there  a  little  while,  an'  I  talked  to  her 
some,  though  I  declare  I  couldn't  tell  you  what  I 
said.  You  can't  —  when  the  psalm  fpelin'  comes. 
But  we  stood  out  there  sort  o'  occupyin'  April,  till 
after  the  big  blue  bowl  o'  feathery  eggs  had  been 
popped  in  the  big  black  oven,  an'  it  was  rill  dark. 

"I  forgot  all  about  the  shroud  till  we  stepped  in 
the  house  an'  lit  up,  an'  I  see  it.  An'  then  it  was 
like  the  song  in  me  gettin'  words,  an'  it  come  to  me 
what  it  all  was:  How  it  rilly  hadn't  been  Jennie's 
funeral  so  much  as  it  had  been  'Leven's  —  the 
'Leven  that  was.  But  I  didn't  tell  her  —  I  never 
told  her.  An'  she  wore  that  shroud  for  most  two 
years,  mornin's,  about  her  work." 

Calliope  smiled  a  little,  with  her  way  of  coming 
back  to  the  moment  from  the  four  great  horizons. 

"Land,"  she  said,  "sometimes  I  think  I'll  make 
some  shrouds  an'  starch  'em  up  rill  good,  an' 
take  'em  to  the  City  an'  offer  to  folks.  An'  say : 
Here.  Die  —  die.  You've  got  to,  some  part  o' 
you,  before  you  can  awake  an'  put  on  your  beauti- 
ful garments  an'  your  strength.  I  told  you,  you 
know,"  she  added,  "I  guess  sometimes  I  kind  o' 
believe  in  craziness!" 


XVIII 

IN  THE   WILDERNESS   A  CEDAR 

IN  answer  to  my  summons  Liddy  Ember  ap- 
peared before  me  one  morning  and  outspread  a 
Vienna  book  of  coloured  fashion-plates. 

"  Dressmakin'  'd  be  a  real  drudgery  for  me," 
she  said,  "if  it  wasn't  for  havin'  the  colour  plates 
an*  makin'  what  I  can  to  look  like  'em.  Sometimes 
I  get  a  collar  or  a  cuff  that  seems  almost  like  the 
picture.  There's  always  somethin'  in  the  way  of  a 
cedar,"  she  added  blithely. 

"A  cedar?"  I  repeated. 

She    nodded,    her    plain  face    lighting.     "That's 

what   Calliope    use'   to   call   'em,"    she   explained; 

' '  I  will  plant  in  the  wilderness  the  cedar,'  you  know 

—  in  the  Bible."     And    I  did  recall  the  phrase  on 

Calliope's  lips,  as  if  it  were  the  theme  of  her. 

From  this  one  and  that  one,  and  now  and  then 
from  her  herself,  I  had  heard  something  of  Calliope's 
love  story.  Indeed,  all  Friendship  knew  it  and  spoke 
of  it  with  no  possibility  of  gossip  or  speculation,  but 


IN  THE  WILDERNESS  A  CEDAR  279 

with  a  kind  of  genius  for  consideration.  I  did  not 
know,  however,  that  it  was  of  this  that  Liddy  meant 
to  speak,  for  she  began  her  story  far  afield,  with 
some  talk  of  Oldmoxon  house,  in  which  I  lived,  and 
of  its  former  tenants. 

"Right  here  in  this  house  is  mixed  up  in  it," 
she  said;  "I  been  thinkin'  about  it  all  the  way  up. 
Not  very  many  have  lived  here  in  the  Oldmoxon  house, 
and  the  folks  that  lived  here  the  year  I  mean  come 
so  quiet  nobody  knew  it  until  they  was  here  —  an* 
that  ain't  easy  to  do  in  Friendship.  First  v/e  knew 
they  was  in  an'  housekeepin*.  Their  accounts  was 
in  the  name  of  a  Mis'  Morgan.  We  see  her  now  an' 
then  on  the  street  —  trim  an'  elderly  an'  no  airs 
excep'  she  wouldn't  open  up  a  conversation  an' 
she  wouldn't  return  her  calls.  'Most  everybody 
called  on  her  inside  the  two  weeks,  but  the  woman 
was  never  home  an'  she  never  paid  any  attention. 
She  didn't  seem  to  have  no  men  folks,  an'  she  settled 
her  bills  with  checks,  like  she  didn't  have  any  ready 
money.  Little  by  little  we  all  dropped  her,  which 
she  ought  to  of  expected.  Even  when  it  got  around 
that  there  was  sickness  in  the  house,  nobody  went 
near,  we  feelin'  as  if  v/e  knew  as  good  as  the  best 
what  dignity  calls  for. 

"But  Calliope  didn't  feel  the  same  about  it. 
Calliope  hardly  ever  felt  the  same  about  anything. 
That  is,  if  it  meant  feelin'  mean.  She  was  a  woman 


280  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

that  worked,  like  me,  but  yet  she  was  wonderful 
different.  That  was  when  we  had  our  shop  to- 
gether in  the  house  where  we  lived  with  the  boy  — 
I'll  come  to  him  in  a  minute  or  two.  Besides  lace- 
makin',  Calliope  had  a  piano  an*  taught  in  the 
fittin'-room  —  that  was  the  same  as  the  dinin'- 
room.  Six  scholars  took.  Sometimes  I  think  it 
was  her  knowin'  music  that  made  her  different. 

"We  two  was  sittin'  on  our  porch  that  night  in  the 
first  dark.  I  know  a  full  moon  was  up  back  o' 
the  hollyhocks  an'  makin'  its  odd  little  shadows  up 
an'  down  the  yard,  an'  we  could  smell  the  savoury 
bed.  'Every  time  I  breathe  in,  somethin'  pleasant 
seems  goin'  on  inside  my  head,'  I  rec'lect  Calliope's 
sayin'.  But  most  o'  the  time  we  was  still  an'  set 
watchin'  the  house  on  the  corner  where  the  New 
People  lived.  They  had  a  hard  French  name  an' 
so  we  kep'  on  callin'  'em  just  the  'New  People.' 
He  was  youngish  an'  she  was  younger  an'  —  she 
wasn't  goin'  out  anywheres  that  summer.  She  was 
settin'  on  the  porch  that  night  waitin'  for  him  to 
come  home.  Before  it  got  dark  we'd  noticed  she 
had  on  a  pretty  white  dress  an'  a  flower  or  two. 
It  seemed  sort  o'  nice  —  that  bein'  so,  an'  her  waitin' 
there  dressed  so  pretty.  An'  we  sort  o'  set  there 
waitin'  for  him,  too  —  like  you  will,  you  know. 

"The  boy  was  in  the  bed.  He  wa'n't  no  relation 
of  Calliope's  if  you're  as  strict  as  some,  but  accordin' 


IN  THE  WILDERNESS   A  CEDAR  281 

to  my  idea  he  was  closer  than  that  —  closer  than  kin. 
He  was  the  grandchild  of  the  man  Calliope  had  been 
goinj  to  marry  forty-some  years  before,  when  she 
was  twenty-odd.  Calvert  Oldmoxon  he  was  — 
born  an'  bred  up  in  this  very  house.  He  was  quite 
well  off  an'  —  barrin'  he  was  always  heathen  selfish 
—  it  was  a  splendid  match  for  Calliope,  but  I  never 
see  a  girl  care  so  next  to  nothin'  about  that.  She 
was  sheer  crazy  about  him,  an'  he  seemed  just  as 
much  so  about  her.  An'  then  when  everything  was 
ready  —  Calliope's  dress  done  an'  layin'  on  their 
best-room  bed,  the  minister  stayin'  home  from  con- 
ference to  perform  the  ceremony,  even  the  white 
cake  made  —  off  goes  Calvert  Oldmoxon  with 
Martha  Boughton,  a  little  high-fly  that  had  just 
moved  to  town.  A  new  girl  can  marry  anything 
she  wants  in  Friendship  if  she  does  it  quick.  So 
Calliope  had  to  put  up  from  Martha  Boughton  with 
just  what  Jennie  Crapwell  had  to  take  from  Delia, 
more'n  twenty-five  years  afterwards. 

"It  was  near  thirty  years  before  we  see  either 
of  'em  again.  Then,  just  a  little  before  I'm  tellin' 
you  about,  a  strange  woman  come  here  to  town  one 
night  with  a  little  boy;  an'  she  goes  to  the  hotel, 
sick,  an'  sends  for  Calliope.  An'  when  Calliope 
gets  to  the  hotel  the  woman  was  about  breathin' 
her  last.  An'  it  was  Mis'  Oldmoxon  —  Martha 
Boughton,  if  you  please,  an'  dyin'  on  the  trip  she'd 


282  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

made  to  ask  Calliope  to  forgive   her   for  what    she 
done. 

"An'  Calliope  forgive  her,  but  I  don't  imagine 
Calliope  was  thinkin'  much  about  her  at  the  time. 
Hangin'  round  the  bed  was  a  little  bey  —  the  livin', 
breathin'  image  of  Calvert  Oldmoxon  himself. 
Calliope  was  mad-daft  over  children  anyway,  though 
she  was  always  kind  o'  shy  o'  showin'  it,  like  a 
good  many  women  are  that  ain't  married.  I've 
seen  her  pick  one  up  an'  gentle  it  close  to  her,  but 
let  anybody  besides  me  come  in  the  room  an'  see 
her  an'  she'd  turn  a  regular  guilt-red.  Calliope 
never  was  one  to  let  on.  But  I  s'pose  seein'  that 
little  boy  there  at  the  hotel  look  so  much  like  him 
was  kind  o'  unbalancin'.  So  what  does  she  do  when 
Mis'  Oldmoxon  was  cryin'  about  forgiveness  but 
up  an'  ask  her  what  was  goin'  to  be  done  with  the 
boy  after  she  was  dead.  Calliope  would  be  one 
to  bring  the  word  'dead'  right  out,  too,  an'  let  the 
room  ring  with  it  —  though  that  ain't  the  custom 
in  society.  Now'days  they  lie  everybody  'way  into 
the  grave,  givin'  'em  to  understand  that  their  re- 
covery is  certain,  till  there  must  be  a  lots  o'  dum- 
founded  dead,  shot  into  the  next  world  —  you  might 
say  unbeknownst.  But  Calliope  wasn't  mincin' 
matters.  An'  when  it  come  out  that  the  dyin' 
woman  hadn't  seen  Calvert  Oldmoxon  for  thirty 
years  an'  didn't  know  where  he  was,  an'  that  the 


IN   THE   WILDERNESS   A   CEDAR  283 

child  was  an  orphan  an*  would  go  to  collateral  kin 
or  some  such  folks,  Calliope  plumps  out  to  her  to 
give  her  the  child.  The  forgiveness  Calliope  sort  o' 
took  for  granted  —  like  you  will  as  you  get  older. 
An'  Mis'  Oldmoxon  seemed  real  willin'  she  should 
have  him.  So  when  Calliope  come  home  from  the 
funeral  —  she'd  rode  alone  with  the  little  boy  for 
mourners  —  she  just  went  to  work  an'  lived  for  that 
child. 

"In  the  wilderness  the  cedar,"  Liddy,'  she 
says  to  me.  *  More  than  one  of  'em.  I've  had  'em 
right  along.  My  music  scholars  an'  my  lace-makin' 
customers  an'  all.  An',  Liddy,'  she  says  to  me 
sort  o'  shy,  *  ain't  you  noticed,'  she  says,  'how 
many  neighbours  we've  had  move  in  an  out  that's 
had  children?  So  many  o'  the  little  things  right 
around  us !  Seems  like  they'd  almost  been  born 
to  me  when  they  come  acrost  the  street,  so.  An' 
I've  always  thought  o'  that  —  "  In  the  wilderness 
the  cedar'"  she  says,  'an'  they's  always  somethin' 
to  be  a  cedar  for  me,  seems  though.' 

"'Well,'  says  I,  sort  o'  sceptical,  'mebbe  that's 
because  you  always  plant  'em,'  I  says.  'I  think 
it  means  that,  too,'  I  told  her.  An'  I  knew  well 
enough  Calliope  was  one  to  plant  her  cedars  herself. 
Cedars  o'  comfort,  you  know. 

"I've  seen  a  good  many  kinds  o'  mother-love 
—  you  do  when  you  go  round  to  houses  like  I  do. 


284  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

But  I  never  see  anything  like  Calliope.  Seems 
though  she  breathed  that  child  for  air.  She  always 
was  one  to  pretend  to  herself,  an*  I  knew  well  enough 
she'd  figured  it  out  as  if  this  was  their  child  that 
might  'a'  been,  long  ago.  She  sort  o'  played  mother 
—  like  you  will;  an'  she  lived  her  play.  He  was 
a  real  sweet  little  fellow,  too.  He  was  one  o'  them 
big-eyed  kind  that  don't  laugh  easy,  an'  he  was  well- 
spoken,  an'  wonderful  self-settled  for  a^  child  o' 
seven.  He  was  always  findin'  time  for  you  when 
you  thought  he  was  doin'  somethin'  else  —  slidin' 
up  to  you  an'  puttin'  up  his  hand  in  yours  when 
you  thought  he  was  playin'  or  asleep.  An'  that  was 
what  he  done  that  night  when  we  set  on  the  porch 
-  comes  slippin'  out  of  his  little  bed  an'  sets  down 
between  us  on  the  top  step,  in  his  little  night-things. 

"'Calvert,  honey,'  Calliope  says,  'you  must  run 
back  an'  play  dreams.  Mother  wants  you  to.' 

"She'd  taught  him  to  call  her  mother  —  she'd 
had  him  about  six  months  then  —  an'  some  thought 
that  was  queer  to  do,  seein'  Calliope  was  her  age  an* 
all.  But  I  thought  it  was  wonderful  right. 

' '  I  did  play/  he  says  to  her  —  he  had  a  nice 
little  way  o'  pressin'  down  hard  with  his  voice  on 
one  word  an'  lettin'  the  next  run  off  his  tongue  — 
'I  did  play  dreams,'  I  rec'lect  he  says;  'I  dreamed 
'bout  robbers.  Ain't  robbers  distinct?9  he  says. 

"  I  didn't  know  what  he  meant  till  Calliope  laughs 


IN  THE  WILDERNESS   A  CEDAR  285 

an'  says,    'Oh,    distinctly  extinct!'     I   remembered 
it  by  the  way  the  words  kind  o'  crackled. 

"  By  then  he  was  lookin'  up  to  the  stars  —  his 
little  mind  always  lit  here  an'  there,  like  a  grass- 
hopper. 

"'How  can  heaven  begin/  he  says,  'till  everybody 
gets  there  ?' 

"Yes,  he  was  a  dear  little  chap.  I  like  to  think 
about  him.  An'  I  know  when  he  says  that,  Cal- 
liope just  put  her  arms  around  him,  an'  her  head 
down,  an'  set  sort  o'  rockin'  back  an'  forth.  An' 
she  says : — 

'"Oh,  but  I  think  it  begins  when  we  don't  know.' 

"After  a  while  she  took  him  back  to  bed,  little 
round  face  lookin'  over  her  shoulder  an'  big,  wide- 
apart,  lonesome  eyes  an'  little  sort  o'  crooked  frown, 
for  all  the  world  like  the  other  Calvert  Oldmoxon. 
Just  as  she  come  out  an'  set  down  again,  we  heard 
the  click  o'  the  gate  acrost  at  the  corner  house  where 
the  New  People  lived,  an'  it  was  the  New  Husband 
got  home.  We  see  his  wife's  white  dress  get  up  to 
meet  him,  an'  they  went  in  the  house  together,  an' 
we  see  'em  standin'  by  the  lamp,  lookin'  at  things. 
Seems  though  the  whole  night  was  sort  o'  —  gentle. 

"All  of  a  sudden  Calliope  unties  her  apron. 
"Let's   dress   up,'   she   says. 

"'Dress  up!'  I  says,  laughin'  some.  'Why, 
it  must  be  goin'  on  half-past  eight,'  I  told  her. 


286  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"I  don't  care  if  it  is/  she  says;  'I'm  goin'  to 
dress  up.  It  seems  as  though  I  must/ 

"She  went  inside,  an'  I  followed  her.  Calliope 
an*  I  hadn't  no  men  folks  to  dress  for,  but,  bein' 
dressmakers  an'  lace  folks,  we  had  good  things  to 
wear.  She  put  on  the  best  thin  dress  she  had  — 
a  gray  book-muslin;  an'  I  took  down  a  black  lawn 
o'  mine.  It  was  such  a  beautiful  night  that  I  'most 
knew  what  she  meant.  Sometimes  you  can't  do 
much  but  fit  yourself  in  the  scenery.  But  I  always 
thought  Calliope  fit  in  no  matter  what  she  had  on. 
She  was  so  little  an'  rosy,  an'  she  always  kep'  her 
head  up  like  she  was  singin'. 

"'Now  what?'  I  says.  For  when  you  dress  up, 
you  can't  set  home.  An'  then  she  says  slow  —  an' 
you  could  'a'  knocked  me  over  while  I  listened :  — 

"'I've  been  thinkin','  she  says,  'that  we  ought  to 
go  up  to  Oldmoxon  house  an  see  that  sick  person.' 

"'Calliope!'  I  says,  'for  the  land.  You  don't 
want  to  be  refused  in!' 

"'I  don't  know  as  I  do  an'  I  don't  know  but 
I  do,'  she  answers  me.  *I  feel  like  I  wanted  to  be 
doin'  somethin'.' 

"With  that  she  out  in  the  kitchen  an'  begins  to 
fill  a  basket.  Calliope's  music  didn't  prevent  her 
cookin'  good,  as  it  does  some.  She  put  in  I  don't 
know  what  all  good,  an'  she  had  me  pick  some 
hollyhocks  to  take  along.  An'  before  I  knew  it, 


IN  THE  WILDERNESS  A  CEDAR  287 

I  was  out  on  Daphne  Street  in  the  moonlight  headin' 
for  Oldmoxon  house  here  that  no  foot    in  Friend- 
ship had  stepped  or  set  inside  of  in  'most  six  months. 
'They  won't  let  us  in,'  I  says,  pos'tive. 

"'Well,'  Calliope  says,  'seems  though  I'd  like 
to  walk  up  there  a  night  like  this,  anyway.' 

"An'  I  wasn't  the  one  to  stop  her,  bein'  I  sort  o' 
guessed  that  what  started  her  off  was  the  New 
People.  Those  two  livin'  so  near  by  —  lookin' 
forward  to  what  they  was  lookin'  forward  to  — 
so  soon  after  the  boy  had  come  to  Calliope,  an'  all, 
had  took  hold  of  her  terrible.  She'd  spent  hours 
handmakin'  the  little  baby-bonnet  she  was  goin' 
to  give  'em.  An'  then  mebbe  it  was  the  night  some, 
too,  that  made  her  want  to  come  up  around  this 
house  —  because  you  could  'most  'a'  cut  the  moon- 
light with  a  knife. 

"They  wa'n't  any  light  in  the  big  hall  here 
when  we  rung  the  bell,  but  they  lit  up  an'  let  us  in. 
Yes,  they  actually  let  us  in.  Mis'  Morgan  come 
to  the  door  herself. 

"Come  right  in,'  she  says,  cordial.  'Come  right 
upstairs/ 

"Calliope  says  somethin'  about  our  bein'  glad 
they  could  see  us. 

"Oh,'  says  Mis'  Morgan,  'I  had  orders  quite 
a  while  ago  to  let  in  whoever  asked.  An'  you're 
the  first,'  she  says.  'You're  the  first/ 


288  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"An*  then  it  come  to  us  that  this  Mis'  Morgan 
we'd  all  been  tryin'  to  call  on  was  only  what  you 
might  name  the  housekeeper.  An*  so  it  turned 
out  she  was. 

"The  whole  upper  hall  was  dark,  like  puttin' 
a  black  skirt  on  over  your  head.  But  the  room  we 
went  in  was  cheerful,  with  a  fire  burnin'  up.  Only 
it  was  awful  littered  up  —  old  newspapers  layin* 
round,  used  glasses  settin'  here  an'  there,  water- 
pitcher  empty,  an'  the  lamp-chimney  was  smoked 
up,  even.  The  woman  said  somethin'  about  us 
an'  went  out  an'  left  us  with  somebody  settin'  in 
a  big  chair  by  the  fire,  sick  an'  wrapped  up.  An' 
when  we  looked  over  there,  Calliope  an'  I  stopped 
still.  It  was  a  man. 

"If  it'd  been  me,  I'd  'a'  turned  round  an'  got 
out.  But  Calliope  was  as  brave  as  two,  an'  she 
spoke  up. 

"'This  must  be  the  invalid,'  she  says,  cheerful. 
'We  hope  we  see  you  at  the  best.' 

"The  man  stirs  some  an'  looks  over  at  us  kind  o' 
eager  —  he  was  oldish,  an'  the  firelight  bein'  in  his 
eyes,  he  couldn't  see  us. 

"It  isn't  anybody  to  see  me,  is  it?'  he  asks. 

"At  that  Calliope  steps  forward  —  I  remember 
how  she  looked  in  her  pretty  gray  dress  with  some 
light  thing  over  her  head,  an'  her  starched  white 
skirts  was  rustlin'  along  under,  soundin'  so  genteel 


IN  THE  WILDERNESS  A  CEDAR  289 

she  seemed  to  me  like  strangers  do.  When  he  see 
her,  the  man  made  to  get  up,  but  he  was  too  weak 
for  it. 

"'Why,  yes/  she  answers  him,  'if  you're  well 
enough  to  see  anybody/ 

"An'  at  that  the  man  put  his  hands  on  his  knees 
an'  leaned  sort  o'  hunchin'  forward. 

"'Calliope!'  he  says. 

"  It  was  him,  sure  enough  —  Calvert  Oldmoxon. 
Same  big,  wide-apart,  lonesome  eyes  an'  kind  o* 
crooked  frown.  His  hair  was  gray,  an'  so  was  his 
pointed  beard,  an'  he  was  crool  thin.  But  I'd  'a' 
known  him  anywheres. 

"Calliope,  she  just  stood  still.  But  when  he 
reached  out  his  hand,  his  lips  parted  some  like  a 
child's  an'  his  eyes  lookin'  up  at  her,  she  went  an' 
stood  near  him,  by  the  table,  an'  she  set  her  basket 
there  an'  leaned  down  on  the  handle,  like  her 
strength  was  gone. 

"I  never  knew  it  was  you  here,'  she  says.  'No- 
body knows,'  she  told  him. 

" '  No,'  he  says,  '  I've  done  my  best  they  shouldn't 
know.  Up  till  I  got  sick.  Since  then  —  I  — 
wanted  folks,'  he  says. 

"I  kep'  back  by  the  door,  an'  I  couldn't  take  my 

eyes  off  of  him.     He  was  older  than  Calliope,  but 

he  had  a  young  air.     Like  you  don't  have  when  you 

stay  in  Friendship.     An'  he  seemed  to  know  how  to 

o 


290  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

be  easy,  sick  as  he  was.  An*  that  ain't  like  Friend- 
ship, either.  He  an'  Calliope  had  growed  opposite 
ways,  seems  though. 

"Til  go  now,'  says  Calliope,  not  lookin'  at  him. 
'I  brought  up  some  things  I  baked.  I  didn't  know 
but  they'd  taste  good  to  whoever  was  sick  here.' 

"With  that  he  covers  one  hand  over  his  eyes. 

"'No,'  he  says,  'no,  no,  Calliope  —  don't  go  yet. 
It's  you  I  come  here  to  Friendship  to  see,'  he  told  her. 

"'What  could  you  have  to  say  to  me  ?'  asks  Cal- 
liope —  dry  as  a  bone  in  her  voice,  but  I  see  her 
eyes  wasn't  so  dry.  Leastwise,  it  may  not  have  been 
her  eyes,  but  it  was  her  look. 

"Then  he  straightens  up  some.  He  was  still 
good-lookin'.  When  you  was  with  him  it  use'  to 
be  that  you  sort  o'  wanted  to  stay  —  an'  it  seemed 
the  same  way  now.  He  was  that  kind. 

"Don't  you  think,'  he  says  to  her  —  an'  it  was 
like  he  was  humble,  but  it  was  like  he  was  proud, 
too  —  'don't  you  think,'  he  says,  'that  I  ever 
dreamed  you  could  forgive  me.  I  knew  better 
than  that,'  he  told  her.  'It's  what  you  must  think 
o'  me  that's  kep'  me  from  sayin'  to  you  what  I 
come  here  to  say.  But  I'll  tell  you  now,'  he  says, 
'I'm  sick  an'  alone  an'  done  for.  An'  what  I  come 
to  see  you  about  —  is  the  boy.' 

"'The  boy,'  Calliope  says  over,  not  under- 
standing 'the  boy/ 


IN  THE  WILDERNESS  A  CEDAR  291 

"'My  God,  yes,'  says  he.  'He's  all  I've  got  left 
in  the  world.  Calliope  —  I  need  the  boy.  I  need 
him!' 

"I  rec'lect  Calliope  puttin'  back  that  light  thing 
from  her  head  like  it  smothered  her.  He  laid  back 
in  his  chair  for  a  minute,  white  an'  still.  An' 
then  he  says  —  only  of  course  his  words  didn't 
sound  the  way  mine  do:  — 

"'I  robbed  your  life,  Cally,  an'  I  robbed  my  own. 
As  soon  as  I  knew  it  an'  couldn't  bear  it  any  longer, 
I  went  away  alone  —  an'  I've  lived  alone  all  exceptin' 
since  the  little  boy  come.  His  mother,  my  son's 
wife,  died;  an'  I  all  but  brought  him  up.  I  loved 
him  as  I  never  loved  anybody  —  but  you,'  he  says, 
simple.  'But  when  his  father  died,  of  course  I 
hadn't  any  claim  on  the  little  fellow,  I  felt,  when 
I'd  been  away  from  the  rest  so  long.  She  took  him 
with  her.  An'  when  I  knew  she'd  left  him  here  I 
couldn't  have  kep'  away,'  he  says,  '  I  couldn't.  He's 
all  I've  got  left  in  the  world.  I  all  but  brought  him 
up.  I  must  have  him,  Cally  —  don't  you  see  I  must 
have  him  ?'  he  says. 

"Calliope  looks  down  at  him,  wonderful  calm 
an'  still. 

'You've  had  your  own  child,'  she  told  him  slow; 
'you've  had  a  real  life.  I'm  just  gettin'  to  mine  — 
since  I  had  the  boy.' 

"  '  But,  good  God,'  he  says,  starin'  up  at  her,  'you're 


292  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

a  woman.  An'  one  child  is  the  same  as  another 
to  you,  so  be  that  it  ain't  your  own/ 

"Calliope  looked  almost  as  if  he  had  struck  at 
her,  though  he'd  only  spoke  a  kind  o'  general  male 
idea,  an'  he  couldn't  help  bein9  a  male.  An'  she  says 
back  at  him:  — 

"'But  you're  a  man.  An'  bein'  alive  is  one  thing 
to  you  an'  another  thing  to  me.  Never  let  any  man 
forget  that/  she  says,  like  I  never  heard  her  speak 
before. 

"Then  I  see  the  tears  shinin'  on  his  face.  He 
was  terrible  weak.  He  slips  down  in  his  chair  an' 
sets  starin'  at  the  fire,  his  hands  hangin'  limp  over 
the  arms  like  there  wasn't  none  of  him  left.  His 
face  looked  tired  to  death,  an'  yet  there  was  that 
somethin'  about  him  like  you  didn't  want  to  leave 
him.  I  see  Calliope  lookin'  at  him  —  an'  all  of  a 
sudden  it  come  to  me  that  if  I'd  'a'  loved  him  as  she 
use'  to,  I'd  'a'  walked  over  there  an'  then,  an'  sort  o' 
gentled  his  hair,  no  matter  what. 

"But  Calliope,  she  turned  sharp  away  from  him 
an'  begun  lookin'  around  the  room,  like  she  see  it 
for  the  first  time  —  smoky  lamp-chimney,  old  news- 
papers layin'  'round,  used-up  glasses,  an'  such  like. 
The  room  was  one  o'  the  kind  when  they  ain't 
no  women  or  children.  An'  then,  when  she  see 
all  that,  pretty  soon  she  looked  back  at  him,  layin' 
sick  in  his  chair,  alone  an'  done  for,  like  he  said. 


IN  THE  WILDERNESS   A   CEDAR  29$ 

An'  I  see  her  take  her  arms  in  her  hands  an*  kind 
o'  rock. 

"'Ain't  the  little  fellow  a  care  to  you,  Cally?' 
he  says  then,  wistful. 

"She  went  over  towards  him,  an'  I  see  her  pick 
up  his  pillow  an'  smooth  it  some  an'  make  to  fix 
it  better. 

"'Yes,'  she  says  then,  'you're  right.  He  is  a 
care.  An'  he's  your  grandchild.  You  must  take 
him  with  you  just  as  soon  as  you're  well  enough/ 
she  says. 

"He  broke  clear  down  then,  an'  he  caught  her 
hands  an'  laid  his  face  on  'em.  She  stood  wonderful 
calm,  lookin'  down  at  him  —  an'  lookin'.  An'  I 
laid  the  hollyhocks  down  on  the  rug  or  anywheres, 
an'  somehow  I  got  out  o'  the  room  an'  down  the 
stairs.  An'  I  set  there  in  the  lower  hall  an'  waited. 

"She  come  herself  in  a  minute.  The  big  outside 
door  was  standin'  open,  an'  when  I  heard  her  step 
on  the  stairs  I  went  on  ahead  out  to  the  porch,  feelin' 
kind  o'  strange  —  like  you  will.  But  when  Calliope 
come  up  to  me  she  was  just  the  same  as  she  always 
was,  an'  I  might  'a'  known  she  would  be.  She 
isn't  easy  to  understand  —  she's  differ'nt  —  but 
when  you  once  get  to  expectin'  folks  to  be  differ'nt, 
you  can  depend  on  'em  some  that  way,  too. 

"The  moon  was  noon-high  by  then  an'  filterin' 
down  through  the  leaves  wonderful  soft,  an'  things 


294  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

was  still  —  I  remember  thinkin'  it  was  like  the 
hushin'-up  before  a  bride  comes  in,  but  there  wasn't 
any  bride. 

"When  we  come  to  our  house  —  just  as  we  begun 
to  smell  the  savoury  bed  clear  out  there  on  the  walk 

—  we  heard  something  ...  a  little  bit  of  a  noise 
that  I  couldn't  put  a  name  to,  first.     But,  bless  you, 
Calliope  could.     She  stopped  short  by  the  gate  an' 
stood  lookin*  acrost  the  road  to  the  corner  house 
where  the  New  People  lived.     It  was  late  for  Friend- 
ship, but  upstairs  in  that  house  a  lamp  was  burnin*. 
An*  that  room  was  where  the  little  noise  come  from 

—  a  little  new  cry. 

"'Oh,  Liddy,'  Calliope  says  —  her  head  up  like 
she  was  singin' -  - 'Oh,  Liddy  —  the  New  People 
have  got  their  little  child/ 

"An*  I  see,  though  of  course  she  didn't  any- 
wheres near  realize  it  then,  that  she  was  plantin* 
herself  another  cedar." 


XIX 

HERSELF 

AFTER  all,  it  was  as  if  I  had  first  been  told  about 
refraction  and  then  had  been  shown  a  rainbow.  For 
presently  Calliope  herself  said  something  to  me  of 
her  having  been  twenty.  One  would  as  lief  have 
broken  the  reticence  of  a  rainbow  as  that  of  Calliope, 
but  rainbows  are  not  always  reticent.  I  have  known 
them  suggest  infinite  things. 

In  June  she  spent  a  fortnight  with  me  at  Oldmoxon 
house,  and  I  wanted  never  to  let  her  go.  Often 
our  talk  was  as  irrelevant  to  patency  as  are  wings. 
That  day  I  had  been  telling  her  some  splendid 
inconsequent  dream  of  mine.  It  had  to  do  with  an 
affair  of  a  wheelbarrow  of  roses  which  I  was  tying 
on  my  trees  in  the  garden  directly  the  original  blos- 
soms fell  off. 

Calliope  nodded  in  entire  acceptance. 

"  But  that  wasn't  so  queer  as  my  dream,"  she  said. 
"  My  dream  about  myself  —  I  mean  my  rill,  true 
regular  self,"  she  added,  with  a  manner  of  testing  me. 

I  think  that  we  all  dream  our  real,  true,  regular 
selves,  only  we  do  not  dream  us  until  we  come  true. 

295 


296  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

I  said  something  of  this  to  Calliope ;  and  then  she  told 
me. 

"It  was  when  I  was  twenty,"  she  said,  "an*  it  was 
a  little  while  after  —  well,  things  wasn't  so  very 
happy  for  me.  But  first  thing  I  must  tell  you  about 
the  picture.  We  didn't  have  so  very  many  pictures. 
But  in  my  room  used  to  be  an  old  steel  engraving  of  a 
poet,  a  man  walkin'  'round  under  some  kind  o'  trees 
in  blossom.  He  had  a  beautiful  face  an'  a  look  on  it 
like  he  see  heaven.  I  use'  to  look  at  the  picture  an' 
look  at  it,  an'  when  I  did,  it  seemed  almost  like  I  was 
off  somewheres  else. 

"Then  one  night  I  had  my  dream.  I  thought  I 
was  walkin'  down  a  long  road,  green  an'  shady 
an'  quite  wide,  an'  fields  around  an'  no  folks.  I 
know  I  was  hurry  in' — oh,  I  was  in  such  a  hurry  to 
see  somebody,  seems  though,  somebody  I  was  goin' 
to  see  when  I  got  to  the  end  o'  the  road.  An'  I  was 
so  happy  —  did  you  ever  dream  o'  being  happy,  I 
mean  if  you  wasn't  so  very  happy  in  rill  life  ?  It 
puts  you  in  mind  o'  havin'  a  pain  in  your  side  an' 
then  gettin'  in  one  big,  deep  breath  when  the  pain 
don't  hurt.  In  rill  life  I  was  lonesome,  an*  I  hated 
Friendship  an'  I  wanted  to  get  away  —  to  go  to  the 
City  to  take  music,  or  go  anywheres  else.  I  never  had 
any  what  you  might  call  rill  pleasure  excep'  walkin' 
in  the  Depot  Woods.  That  was  a  gully  grove  beyond 
the  railroad  track,  an'  I  use'  to  like  to  sit  in  there 


HERSELF  297 

some,  by  myself.  I  wasn't  ever  rill  happy,  though, 
them  days,  but  in  the  dream  —  oh,  I  was  happy, 
like  on  a  nice  mornin',  only  more  so/' 

Calliope  looked  at  me  fleetingly,  as  if  she  were 
measuring  my  ability  to  understand. 

"The  funny  part  of  it  was,"  she  said,  "that  in  the 
dream  I  wasn't  me  at  all.  Not  me,  as  you  know  me. 
I  thought  somehow  /  was  that  poet  in  my  picture, 
the  man  in  the  steel  engravin'  with  a  look  like  he  see 
heaven.  An*  it  didn't  seem  strange  to  me,  but  just 
like  it  had  always  been  so.  I  thought  I  rilly  was 
that  poet  that  I'd  looked  at  in  the  picture  all  my  life. 
But  then  I  guess  after  all  that  part  wasn't  so  funny  as 
the  rest  of  it.  For  down  at  the  end  o'  the  road  some- 
body was  waitin'  for  me  under  trees  all  in  blossom, 
like  the  picture,  too.  It  was  a  girl,  standin'  there. 
An'  I  thought  I  looked  at  her  —  I,  the  poet,  you 
know  —  an'  I  see  that  the  girl  was  me,  Calliope 
Marsh,  lookin'  just  like  I  looked  every  day,  natural 
as  anything.  Like  you  see  yourself  in  the  glass. 

"I  know  I  wasn't  su'prised  at  all.  We  met  like 
we  was  friends,  both  livin'  here  in  the  village,  an'  we 
walked  down  the  road  together  like  it  had  always 
been  that  way.  An'  we  talked  —  like  you  do  when 
you're  with  them  you'd  rather  be  with  than  anybody 
else.  I  thought  we  was  goin'  somewhere  to  see 
somebody,  an'  we  talked  about  that :  — 

"'Will  They  be  home,  do  you  think  ?'  I  says. 


298  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"An5  the  girl  that  was  me  says :  'Oh,  yes.  They'll 
be  home.  They're  always  home/  she  told  me.  An' 
we  both  felt  pleased,  like  when  you're  sure. 

"An'  then  — oh,"  Calliope  cried,  "I  wish  I  could 
remember  what  we  said.  I  wish  I  could  remember. 
I  know  it  was  something  that  seemed  beautiful,  an' 
the  words  come  all  soft.  It  was  like  bein'  born  again, 
somewheres  else.  An'  we  knew  just  exactly  what 
each  other  meant,  an'  that  was  best  of  all." 

She  hesitated,  seeking  to  explain  that  to  me. 

"When  I  was  twenty,"  she  said,  "I  use'  to  want 
to  talk  about  things  that  wasn't  commonly  mentioned 
here  in  Friendship  —  I  mean,  well,  like  little  things 
I'd  read  about  noted  people  an'  what  they  said  an' 
done  —  an'  like  that.  But  when  you  brought  'em 
up  in  the  conversation,  folks  always  thought  you  was 
tryin'  to  show  off.  An'  if  you  quoted  a  verse  o' 
poetry  in  company,  my  land,  there  was  a  hush  like 
you'd  swore.  So  gradually  I'd  got  to  keepin'  still 
about  such  things.  But  in  that  dream  we  talked  an' 
talked  —  said  things  about  old  noted  folks  right  out 
an'  told  about  'em  without  beginnin'  it  '  I  happened 
to  read  the  other  day.'  An'  I  know  I  mentioned  the 
sun  on  the  leaves  an'  the  way  the  clouds  looked,  right 
out,  too,  without  bein'  afraid  the  girl  that  was  me 
would  think  I  was  affected.  An'  I  said  little  things 
about  —  oh,  like  about  goblins  in  the  wood  an'  figgers 
in  the  smoke,  without  bein'  scared  that  mothers 


HERSELF  299 

would  hear  of  it  an'  not  let  their  children  come  to 
see  me.  An'  then  I  made  up  things  an'  said  — 
things  I  was  always  wantin'  to  say  —  like  about  ex- 
pectin'  to  meet  Summer  walkin'  down  the  road,  an' 
so  on :  things  that  if  I'd  said  so's  they'd  got  out 
around  Friendship,  folks  would  'a'  thought  I  was 
queer  an'  not  to  be  trusted  to  bring  up  their  mail 
from  town.  I  said  all  those  kind  o'  things,  like  I 
was  really  born  to  talk  what  I  thought  about.  An' 
the  girl  that  was  me  understood  what  I  meant.  An' 
we  laughed  a  good  deal  —  oh,  how  we  laughed 
together.  That  was  'most  the  best  of  all. 

"Well,  the  dream  dwindled  off,  like  they  will.  An' 
when  I  woke  up,  I  was  nothin'  but  Calliope  Marsh, 
livin'  in  Friendship  where  folks  cut  a  loaf  o'  bread  on 
a  baker's  headstone  just  because  he  was  a  baker. 
Rill  life  didn't  get  any  better,  an'  I  was  more  an' 
more  lonesome  in  Friendship.  Somehow,  nobody 
here  in  town  rilly  matched  me.  They  all  knew 
what  I  said  well  enough,  but  when  I  spoke  to  'em 
about  what  was  rill  interestin'  to  me,  seemed  like 
their  minds  didn't  click,  with  that  good  little  feelin' 
o'  rilly  takin'  it  in.  My  /-dees  didn't  seem  to  fit, 
quite  ball  an'  socket,  into  nobody's  mind,  but  just  to 
slide  along  over.  And  as  to  their  i-dees  —  I  rec'lect 
thinkin'  that  the  three  R's  meant  to  'em  Relations, 
Recipes,  an'  the  Remains.  Yes,  all  I  did  have,  you 
might  say,  was  my  walks  out  in  the  Depot  Woods. 


3oo  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

An'  times  like  when  Elder  Jacob  Sykes  —  that  was 
Silas's  father  —  said  in  church  that  God  come  down 
to  be  Moses's  undertaker,  I  run  off  there  to  the 
woods  feelin'  all  sick  an'  skinned  in  soul,  an'  it  sort 
o'  seemed  like  the  gully  understood.  An'  still,  you 
can't  be  friends  when  they's  only  one  of  you.  It's 
like  tryin'  to  hold  a  dust-pan  an'  sweep  the  dirt  in  at 
the  same  time.  It  can't  be  done  —  not  thorough. 
An'  so  settin'  out  there  I  used  to  take  a  book  an'  hunt 
up  nice  little  things  an'  learn  different  verses,  in  the 
hopes  that  if  that  dream  should  come  back,  I  could 
have  'em  to  tell  —  tell  'em,  you  know,  to  the  girl  that 
was  me.  Because  it  bed  got  so  by  then  that  it  seemed 
to  me  I  was  actually  more  that  poet  than  I  was  Cal- 
liope Marsh.  An'  so  it  went  along  till  the  day  I  met 
him  —  the  man,  the  poet." 

"The  man  !"  I  said.  "But  do  you  mean  the  man 
—  the  poet  —  the  one  that  was  you  ?" 

Calliope  nodded  confidently. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  in  her  delicate  excitement,  "I  do. 
Oh,  I'll  tell  you  an'  you'll  see  for  yourself  it  must  'a' 
been  him.  It  was  one  early  afternoon  towards  the 
end  o'  summer,  an'  I  knew  him  in  a  minute.  I'd 
gone  up  to  the  depot  to  mail  a  postal  on  the  Through, 
an'  he  got  off  the  train  an'  went  into  the  Telegraph 
Office.  An*  the  train  pulled  out  an'  left  him  — 
it  was  down  to  the  end  o'  the  platform  before  he 
come  out.  He  didn't  act,  though,  as  if  the  train's 


HERSELF  301 

leavin'  him  was  much  of  anything  to  notice.  He 
just  went  up  an'  commenced  talkin'  to  the 
baggageman,  Bill.  But  Bill  couldn't  understand 
him  —  Bill  was  sort  o'  crusted  over  the  mind  —  you 
had  to  say  things  over  an'  over  again  to  him,  an'  even 
then  he  'most  always  took  it  different  from  what  you 
meant.  So  I  suppose  that  was  why  the  man  left  him 
an'  come  towards  me. 

"When  I  looked  up  in  his  face  I  stood  still  on  the 
platform.  He  was  young.  An'  he  had  soft  hair,  an' 
his  face  was  beautiful,  like  he  see  heaven.  It  wasn't 
to  say  he  was  exactly  like  my  picture,"  Calliope  said 
slowly.  "For  instance,  I  think  the  man  at  the  depot 
had  a  beard,  an'  the  poet  in  my  picture  didn't.  But 
it  was  more  his  look,  you  might  say.  It  wasn't  like 
any  look  I'd  ever  seen  on  anybody  in  Friendship. 
His  hands  were  kind  o'  slim  an'  wanderin',  an'  he 
carried  a  book  like  it  was  his  only  baggage.  An'  he 
had  a  way  —  well,  like  what  he  happened  to  be  doin' 
wasn't  all  day  to  him.  Like  he  was  partly  there, 
but  mostly  somewheres  else,  where  everything  was 
better. 

" '  Perhaps  this  lady  will  know,'  he  says  —  an'  it 
wasn't  the  way  most  of  'em  talks  here  in  Friendship, 
you  understand  —  '  I've  been  askin'  the  luggageman 
there,'  he  says,  an'  he  was  smilin'  almost  like  a  laugh 
at  what  he  thought  I  was  goin'  to  answer,  '  I've  been 
askin'  the  luggageman  there,  if  he  knows  of  a  wood 


302  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

near  the  station  that  I  shall  be  likely  to  find  haunted 
at  this  hour.  I've  to  wait  for  the  4.20,  an'  it's  a  bad 
time  of  day  for  a  haunted  wood,  I'm  afraid.  The 
luggageman  didn't  seem  to  know.' 

"An'  then  all  at  once  I  knew  —  I  knew.  Why, 
don't  you  see,"  Calliope  cried,  "I  had  to  know! 
That  was  just  the  way  we'd  talked  in  my  dream  — 
kind  of  jokin'  an'  yet  meanin'  somethin',  too  —  so's 
you  felt  all  lifted  up  an'  out  o'  the  ordinary.  An* 
then  I  knew  who  he  was  an'  I  see  how  everything 
was.  Why,  the  girl  that  was  me  an'  that  was  lone- 
some there  in  Friendship  wasn't  me,  very  much. 
Me  bein'  Calliope  Marsh  was  the  chance  part,  an' 
didn't  count.  But  things  was  rilly  the  way  I'd 
dreamed  o'  their  bein.'  Somehow,  I  had  another 
self.  An'  I  had  dreamed  o'  bein'  that  self.  An' 
there  he  stood,  on  the  Friendship  depot  platform." 

Calliope  looked  at  me  wistfully. 

"You  don't  think  I  sound  crazy,  do  you?"  she 
asked. 

And  at  my  answer :  — 

"Well,"  she  said,  brightening,  "that  was  how  it 
was.  An'  it  was  like  there  hadn't  been  any  first 
time  an'  like  there  wouldn't  be  any  end.  Like  they 
was  things  bigger  than  time  —  an'  lots  nicer  than 
life.  An'  I  spoke  up  like  I'd  always  known  him. 

"'Why,  yes,'  I  says  to  him  simple,  'you  must  mean 
the  Depot  Woods,'  I  said.  'They're  always  kind  o' 


HERSELF  303 

haunted  to  me.  I  guess  the  little  folks  that  come  in 
the  en-gine  smoke  live  in  there,'  I  told  him,  smilin' 
because  I  was  so  glad. 

"I  remember  how  su'prised  he  looked  an*  how  his 
face  lit  up,  like  he  was  hearin'  English  in  a  heathen 
land. 

"'Upon  my  word/  he  says,  still  only  half  believin* 
in  me.  'An'  do  you  go  there  often  ?'  he  ask'  me. 
'An'  I  daresay  the  little  smoke  folk  talk  to  you,  now  ?' 
he  says. 

"'I  go  'most  every  day,'  I  told  him,  'but  we  don't 
say  very  much.  I  guess  they  talk  an'  I  listen,'  I  says. 

"An'  then  the  funny  part  about  his  askin'  Bill  for 
a  haunted  wood  come  over  me. 

"'Bill!9  I  says.     ' Did  you  actually  ask  Bill  that  ?' 

"Oh,  an'  how  we  laughed  —  how  we  laughed. 
Just  the  way  the  dream  had  been.  It  seemed  —  it 
seemed  such  a  sort  o'  special  comical,"  Calliope  said, 
"an'  not  like  a  Sodality  laugh.  'Seems  though  I'd 
always  laughed  at  one  set  o'  things  all  my  life  —  my 
everyday  life.  An'  this  was  a  new  recipe  for  Laugh, 
flavoured  different,  an'  baked  in  a  quick  oven,  an'  et 
hot. 

"Well,  we  walked  down  the  road  together,  like  it 

had  always  been  that  way.     An'  we  talked  —  like 

7ou  do  when  you're  with  them  you'd  rather  be  with 

oian  anybody  else.     An'  he  ask'  me,  grave  as  grave, 

about  the  little  smoke  folks. 


304  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"  'Will  They  be  home,  do  you  think  ?'  he  says. 

"An*    I    says:    'Oh,   yes.      I    know   They   will 
They're  always  home.' 

"An'  we  both  felt  pleased,  like  when  you're  sure. 

"We  went  to  walk  in  the  Depot  Woods.  I  remem- 
ber how  much  he  made  me  talk  —  more  than  I'd 
ever  talked  before,  excep'  in  the  dream.  I  know  I 
told  him  the  little  stories  I'd  read  about  noted  people, 
an'  I  said  over  some  o'  the  verses  I'd  learned  an' 
liked  the  sound  of —  I  remembered  'em  all  for  him, 
an'  he  listened  an'  heard  'em  all  just  the  way  I'd  said 
'em.  That  was  it  —  he  heard  it  all  just  the  way  I 
said  it.  An'  I  mentioned  the  sun  on  the  leaves  an' 
the  way  the  clouds  locked,  right  out  —  an'  I  knew  he 
didn't  think  I  was  affected.  An'  I  made  up  things 
an'  said,  too  —  things  that  was  always  comin'  in  my 
head  an'  that  I  was  always  wantin'  to  say.  An'  he'd 
laugh  almost  before  I  was  through  —  oh,  it  was  like 
heaven  to  have  him  laugh  an'  not  just  say,  'What  on 
earth  are  you  talkin',  Calliope  Marsh  ?'  like  I'd  heard. 
An'  he  kep'  sayin',  'I  know,  I  know,'  like  he  knew 
what  I  meant  better  than  anything  else  in  the  world. 
Then  he  read  to  me  out  o'  the  book  he  had  an'  he 
told  me  —  beautiful  things.  Some  of  'em  I  remem- 
ber —  I've  remembered  always.  Some  of  'em  I 
forgot  till  I  come  on  'em,  now  an'  then,  in  books  — 
long  afterwards;  an'  then  it  was  like  somebody  dea, 
spoke  up.  I'm  always  thankful  to  get  hold  o'  other 


HERSELF  305 

people's  books  an'  see  if  mebbe  I  won't  find  some- 
thin'  else  he  said.  But  a  good  many  o'  the  things  I 
s'pose  I  clear  forgot,  an'  I  won't  know  'em  again  till 
in  the  next  life.  Like  I  forgot  what  we  said  in  the 
dream,  till  they're  both  all  mixed  up  an'  shinin'. 

"We  talked  till  'most  time  for  the  4.20  train.  An' 
when  it  got  towards  four  o'clock,  I  told  him  about  my 
dream.  It  seemed  like  he  ought  to  know,  somehow. 
An'  I  told  him  how  I  dreamed  I  was  him. 

"'You  don't  look  like  the  one  I  dreamed  I  was/  I 
told  him,  'but,  oh,  you  talk  the  same  —  an'  you  pre- 
tend, an'  you  laugh,  an'  you  seem  the  same.  An' 
your  face  looks  different  from  folks  here  in  Friend- 
ship, just  like  his,  an'  it  seems  somehow  like  you  saw 
things  besides  with  your  eyes,'  I  told  him,  'like  the 
poet  in  my  picture.  So  I  know  it's  you  —  it  must  be 
you,'  I  says. 

"  He  looked  at  me  so  queer  an'  sudden  an'  long. 

"I'm  a  poet,  too,'  he  said,  'if  it  comes  to  that. 
A  very  bad  one,  you  know  —  but  a  kind  of  poet.' 

"An'  then  of  course  I  was  certain  sure. 

"When  he  understood  all  about  it,  I  remember 
how  he  looked  at  me.  An'  he  says :  — 

" '  Well,  an'  who  knows  ?     Who  knows  ? ' 

"  He  sat  a  long  time  without  sayin'  anything.  But 
I  wasn't  unhappy,  even  when  he  seemed  so  sad. 
I  couldn't  be,  because  it  was  so  much  to  know  what 
I  knew. 


306  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

"'If  I  can,'  he  says  to  me  on  the  depot  platform, 
'dead  or  alive,  I'll  come  back  some  day  to  see  you. 
But  meanwhile  you  must  forget  me.  Only  the 
dream  —  keep  the  dream,'  he  says. 

"I  tried  to  dream  it  again,"  Calliope  told  me,  "but 
I  never  could.  An'  dead  or  alive,  he's  never  been 
back,  all  these  years.  I  don't  even  know  his  name 

—  an'  I  remembered  afterwards  he  hadn't  asked  me 
mine.     But  I  guess  all  that  is  the  chance  part,  an' 
it  don't  really  count.     Out  o'  the  dream  I've  been, 
you  might  say,  caught,  tied  up  an'  couldn't  get  out, 

—  just  me,  like  you  know  me,  —  with  a  big  unhappi- 
ness,  an'  like  that.     But  in  the  dream  I  dreamed 
myself  true.     An'  then  God  let  me  meet  myself,  just 
that  once,  there  in  the  Depot  Woods,  to  show  me  it's 
all  right,  an'  that  they's  things  that's  bigger  than 
time  an'  lots  nicer  than  life." 

Calliope  sat  silent,  with  her  way  of  sighing  and 
looking  by;  and  it  was  as  if  she  had  suggested  to  me 
delicate  things,  as  a  rainbow  will  suggest  th«m. 


XX 

THE    HIDINGS   OF   POWER 

I  DIVINED  the  birches,  blurred  gray  and  white 
against  the  fog-bound  cedars.  In  the  haze  the  airy 
trunks,  because  of  their  imminence,  bore  the  reality 
of  thought,  but  the  sterner  green  sank  in  the  dis- 
tance to  the  faint  avail  of  speech.  It  was  well  to 
be  walking  on  the  Plank  Road  toward  seven  o'clock 
of  a  June  morning,  in  a  mist  which  might  yield  fel- 
lowship in  the  same  ease  with  which  it  breathed  on 
distinctions. 

Abel  had  told  how,  on  that  winter  way  of  his 
among  the  hills,  the  sky  has  fallen  in  the  fog  and 
had  surrendered  to  him  a  fellowship  of  dreams. 
But  in  Friendship  Village,  as  I  had  often  thought, 
there  are  dreams  for  every  one;  how  should  it  be 
otherwise  to  us  faring  up  and  down  Daphne  Street 
(where  Daphne's  feet  have  been)  ?  And  yet  that 
morning  on  the  Plank  Road  where,  if  the  fancy 
seized  her  to  walk  in  beauty,  our  lady  of  the  laurels 
might  be  met  at  any  moment,  her  power  seemed  to 

307 


3o8  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

me  to  be  as  frail  as  wings,  and  I  thought  that  it  would 
not  greatly  matter  if  I  were  to  meet  her. 

As  if  my  thought  of  Abel  Halsey  had  brought  him, 
the  beat  of  hoofs  won  toward  me  from  the  village; 
and  presently  Major  Mary  overtook  me,  and  there 
was  Abel,  driving  with  his  eyes  shut.  I  hailed  him, 
laughe  J  at  him,  let  him  pick  me  up,  and  we  went  on 
through  door  after  door  of  the  fog,  \,ith  now  a  lintel 
of  boughs  and  now  a  wall  of  wild  roses. 

"Abel,"  I  remember  saying  abruptly,  "dreams  are 
not  enough." 

"No,"  he  replied,  as  simply  as  if  we  had  been 
talking  of  it,  "dreams  are  just  one  of  the  sources  of 
power  .  .  .  but  doing  is  enough." 

I  said  weakly  —  perhaps  because  it  was  a  morning 
of  chill  and  fog,  when  a  woman  may  feel  her  for- 
lornest,  look  her  plainest,  know  herself  for  dust: 
"But  then — what  about  everybody's  heart?" 

"Don't  you  know?"  Abel  asked,  and  even  after 
those  months  in  Friendship  Village  I  did  not  know. 

"...  use  it  up  making  some  little  corner  bet- 
ter —  better  —  better  by  the  width  of  a  hand,  .  .  ." 
said  Abel.  "As  I  could  do,"  he  added  after  a  mo- 
ment, "if  I  could  get  my  chapel  in  the  hills.  Do  you 
know,  I've  written  to  Mrs.  Proudfit  about  it  at  last. 
I  couldn't  help  it  —  I  couldn't  help  it!" 

We  came  to  the  rise  of  the  hill,  where,  but  for  the 
fog,  we  might  have  looked  back  on  the  village,  al- 


THE   HIDINGS   OF   POWER  309 

ready  long  astir.  To  the  left,  within  its  line  of  field 
stone  and  whitewashed  rails  and  wild  roses,  the 
cemetery  lay,  like  another  way  of  speech.  A  little 
before  us  the  mist  hid  the  tracks,  but  we  heard  the 
whistle  of  the  Fast  Mail,  coming  in  from  the  end  of 
the  earth. 

"Ah,  well,  I  want  some  wild  roses,"  said  I  —  since 
a  woman  may  always  take  certain  refuges  from  life. 

"I'm  coming  back  about  noon,"  Abel  told  me; 
"I'll  bring  you  a  thousand." 

He  drew  up  Major  Mary,  and  we  sat  silent,  watch- 
ing for  the  train.  And  the  Something  which  found 
in  Abel  its  unfailing  channel  came  companioning  us, 
and  caught  me  up  so  that  I  longed  unspeakably  to 
be  about  the  Business  which  Abel  and  Calliope 
followed,  and  followed  before  all  else. 

But  when  I  would  have  said  more,  I  noted  on 
Abel's  face  some  surprise,  and  then  I  myself  felt  it. 
For  the  Fast  Mail  from  the  East,  having  as  usual 
come  roaring  through  Friendship  station  with  but 
an  instant's  stop,  was  now  slowing  at  the  draw. 
Through  the  thick  white  we  perceived  it  motionless 
for  a  breath,  and  then  we  heard  it  beat  away  again. 

I  wonder  now,  remembering,  how  I  can  have 
known  with  such  singing  confidence  what  was  in 
store  for  me.  It  is  certain  that  I  did  know,  even 
though  in  the  mist  I  saw  no  one  alight.  But  as  if 
at  a  summons  I  bade  Abel  let  me  descend,  and 


310  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

somehow  I  gave  him  good-by;  and  I  recall  that  1 
cried  back  to  him :  — 

"Abel!  You  said  the  sky  can  fall  and  give  one 
dreams/' 

"Yes,"  he  answered.     "Dreams  to  use  in  one's 


corner." 


But  I  knew  then  and  I  know  now  that  Abel's 
dreams  flowed  in  his  blood,  and  that  when  he  gave 
them  to  his  corner  of  the  world  he  gave  from  his 
own  veins;  and  I  think  that  the  world  is  the  richer 
for  that. 

When  he  had  gone  I  stood  still  in  the  road,  wait- 
ing. I  distinguished  a  lintel  of  elms,  a  wall  of  wild 
roses ;  I  heard  a  brave  little  bird  twittering  impatient 
matins,  and  the  sound  of  nearing  footsteps  in  the 
road.  And  then  a  voice  in  the  mist  said  my  name. 

There  in  the  fog  on  the  Plank  Road  we  met  as  if 
there  had  come  a  clearness  everywhere  —  we  two, 
between  whom  lay  that  year  since  my  coming  to 
Friendship.  Only,  now  that  he  was  with  me,  I 
observed  that  the  traitor  year  had  slipped  away  as 
if  it  had  never  been,  and  had  left  us  two  alone  in  a 
place  so  sightly  that  at  last  I  recognized  my  own 
happiness.  And  I  understood  —  and  this  way  of 
understanding  leaves  one  a  breathless  being  —  that 
his  happiness  was  there  too. 

And  yet  it  was  only:  "You.  .  .  .  But  what  an 
adventure  to  meet  you  here ! "  And  from  him  • 


THE   HIDINGS   OF   POWER  311 

"  Me.  Here.  Please,  may  we  go  to  your  house  ? 
I  haven't  had  an  Indication  of  breakfast."  At  which 
we  laughed  somewhat,  with  my,  "  How  absurdly  like 
you  not  to  have  had  breakfast,"  and  his,  "How  very 
shabby  of  you  to  feel  superior  because  you  happen 
to  have  had  your  coffee."  So  we  moved  back  down 
the  road  with  the  clear  little  space  in  the  fog  follow- 
ing, following.  .  .  . 

A  kind  of  passion  for  detail  seized  on  us  both. 

He  said:  "You're  wearing  brown.  I've  never 
seen  you  wear  brown  —  I'm  sure  I  haven't.  Have 
I?" 

"  My  fur  coat  was  brown,"  I  escaped  into  the  sub- 
ject, "but  then  that  hardly  counts." 

"No,"  he  agreed,  "fur  isn't  a  colour.  Fur  is  just 
fur.  No,  I've  never  seen  you  in  brown." 

"  How  did  they  let  you  off  at  the  draw  ?  How  did 
you  know  about  getting  off  at  the  draw  ?"  I  de- 
manded. 

"  You  said  something  of  your  getting  off  there  — 
in  that  one  letter,  you  know.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  yes.  .  .  ." 

"  You  said  something  about  getting  off  there  on  a 
night  when  you  left  the  train  with  a  girl  who  was 
coming  home  to  the  village  —  you  know  the  letter  ?" 
he  broke  off,  "I  think  it  was  that  letter  that  finally 
gave  me  courage  to  come.  Because  in  that  I  saw 
in  you  something  new  and  —  understanding.  Well, 


3i2  FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

and  I  remembered  about  the  draw.  I  always  meant 
to  get  off  there,  when  I  came." 

"You  always  meant  ,  .  .  but  then  how  did  you 
make  them  stop  ?" 

"  I  told  the  man  I  had  to,  and  then  he  had  to,  too. 
There  were  four  others  who  got  off  and  went  across 
the  tracks,  but  we  are  not  obliged  to  consider  them." 

"From  that,"  I  said,  "I  would  think  it  is  you,  if  I 
didn't  know  it  couldn't  possibly  be!" 

Then  I  hurried  into  some  recital  about  the  Top- 
ladys,  whose  big  barn  and  little  house  were  lined 
faintly  out  as  if  something  were  making  them  feel 
hushed;  and  about  Friendship,  hidden  in  the  valley 
as  if  it  were  suddenly  of  lesser  import  —  how  strange 
that  these  things  should  be  there  as  they  were  an 
hour  ago.  And  so  we  came  to  Oldmoxon  House  and 
went  up  the  walk  in  silence  save  that,  at  the  steps, 
"How  long  shall  I  tell  them  to  boil  your  eggs?"  I 
asked  desperately,  to  still  the  quite  ridiculous  singing 
of  the  known  world.  But  then  the  singing  took  one 
voice,  a  voice  whose  firmness  made  it  almost  hard, 
save  that  deep  within  it  something  was  beating.  .  .  . 

"You  know,"  said  the  voice  simply,  "if  I  come  in 
now,  I  come  to  stay.  You  do  know  ?" 

"You  come  to  breakfast.  .  .  ."     I  tried  it. 

"I  come  to  stay." 

"You  mean—" 

"I  come  to  stay." 


THE   HIDINGS   OF    POWER  313 

I  rather  hoped  to  affirm  something  gracious,  and 
masterful  of  myself — not  to  say  of  him;  but  sud- 
denly that  whole  lonely  year  was  back  again,  most 
of  it  in  my  throat.  And  though  I  gave  up  saying 
anything  at  all,  I  cannot  have  been  unintelligible. 
Indeed,  I  know  that  I  was  not  unintelligible,  for 
when,  in  a  little  while,  Calliope,  who  was  still  with 
me,  opened  my  front  door  and  emerged  briskly  to  the 
veranda,  she  seem,  "o  have  understood  in  a  minute. 

"Well  said!"  Calliope  cried,  and  made  a  little 
swoop  down  from  the  threshold  and  stood  before  us, 
one  hand  in  mine  and  one  outstretched  for  his ;  "  I 
knew,  as  soon  as  I  woke  up  this  morning,  I  felt 
special.  I  thought  it  was  my  soul,  sittin'  up  in  my 
chest,  an'  wantin'  me  to  spry  round  with  it  some, 
like  it  does.  But  I  guess  now  it  was  this.  Oh, 
this !"  she  said.  "Oh,  I  sp'ose  I'd  rilly  ought  to  hev 
an  introduction  before  I  jump  up  an'  down,  hadn't 
I?" 

"No  need  in  the  world,  Calliope,"  he  told  her; 
"come  on.  I'll  jump,  too." 

And  that  was  an  added  joy  —  that  he  had  read  and 
re-read  that  one  Friendship  letter  of  mine,  written 
on  the  night  of  Delia  More's  return,  until  it  was  as 
if  he,  too,  knew  Calliope.  But  before  all  things  was 
the  wonder  of  the  justice  and  the  grace  which  had 
made  the  letter  of  that  night,  when  I,  too,  "took 
stock,"  yield  such  return. 


JI4  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

It  was  Calliope  who  led  the  way  indoors  at  last, 
and  he  and  I  who  followed  like  her  guests.  From 
the  edges  of  consciousness  I  finally  drew  some  dis- 
cernment of  the  place  of  coffee  and  rolls  in  a  benefi- 
cent universe,  and  presently  we  three  sat  at  his 
breakfast  table.  And  not  until  then  did  Calliope 
remember  her  other  news. 

"Land,  land,"  she  said,  "I  like  to  forgot.  Who 
do  you  s'pose  I  had  a  telephone  from  just  before  you 
come  ?  Delia.  She'd  just  got  home  this  morning 
on  the  Fast  Mail.  An'  the  Proudfits'll  be  here,  noon 


train." 


Delia  indeed  had  come  on  the  same  glorified  train 
that  Abel  and  I  had  seen  stop  at  the  draw,  only  she 
had  alighted  at  Friendship  station  and  had  hurried  up 
to  the  Proudfits'  to  make  ready  for  their  home-coming. 
And  since  those  whom  we  know  best  never  come  to 
Friendship  without  a  welcome,  it  was  instantly  in- 
cumbent on  us  all  to  be  what  Calliope  called  "  up  in 
arms  an'  flyin*  round." 

As  soon  as  we  were  alone :  — 

"I've  planned  noon  lunch  for  'em,"  Calliope  told 
me;  "I'm  goin'  to  see  to  the  meat  —  leg  o'  lamb, 
sissin'  hot,  an'  a  big  bowl  o'  mint.  Mis'  Holcomb's 
got  to  freeze  a  freezer  o'  her  lemon  ice  —  she  gets  it 
smooth  as  a  mud  pie.  Mis'  Toplady,  she'll  come  in 
on  the  baked  stuff — raised  rolls  an'  a  big  devil's 
food.  An'  -  -  I'd  kind  o'  meant  to  look  to  you  for 


THE   HIDINGS   OF   POWER  315 

the  salad,  but  I  s'pose  you  won't  want  to  bother 
now.  .  .  ."  And  when  I  had  hastened  to  assume 
the  salad,  "Well,  I  am  glad,"  she  owned,  with  a  re- 
lieved sigh.  "The  Proudfit  salads  they  can't  a  soul 
tell  what  ingredients  is  in  'em,  chew  high  though  we 
may.  I  know  you  know  about  them  queer  organs 
an*  canned  sea  reptiles  they  use  now  in  cookin'. 
I've  come  to  the  solemn  conclusion  I  ain't  studied 
physiology  an*  the  animal  sciences  close  enough 
myself  to  make  a  rill  up-to-date  salad." 

Before  noon  we  were  all  at  Proudfit  House  —  to 
which  I  had  taken  care  to  leave  word  for  Abel  to 
follow  me  —  and  we  were  letting  in  the  sun,  making 
ready  the  table,  filling  the  vases  with  garden  roses; 
and  in  the  library  Calliope  laid  a  fire  "in  case  they 
get  chilly,  travellin'  so,"  she  said,  but  I  think  rather 
it  was  in  longing  somehow  to  summon  a  secret 
agency  to  that  place  where  Linda  Proudfit's  portrait 
hung.  For  we  had  long  been  agreed  that,  as  soon 
as  she  was  at  home  again,  Linda's  mother  must  be 
told  all  that  we  knew  of  Linda.  Thus,  to  Calliope 
and  me,  the  time  held  a  tragic  meaning  beneath  the 
exterior  of  our  simple  cheer.  But  the  time  held 
many  meanings,  as  a  time  will  hold  them;  and  the 
Voice  of  its  new  meaning  said  to  me,  as  we  all  waited 
on  the  Proudfit  veranda  with  its  vines  and  its  climb- 
ing rose  and  its  canaries :  — 

*I  marvel,  I  marvel  at  your  bad  taste.     How  can 


316  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

you  leave  the  dear  place  and  the  dear  people  for 
me?" 

I  love  to  recall  the  bustle  of  that  arriving  and  how, 
as  the  motor  came  up  the  drive,  Mis'  Holcomb-that- 
was-Mame-Bliss  and  Mis'  Amanda  ran  down  on  the 
gravel  and  waved  their  aprons ;  and  how  Mis'  Post- 
master Sykes  and  Mis'  Mayor  Uppers  and  Mis' 
Photographer  Sturgis,  having  heard  the  machine 
pass  their  doors,  had  issued  forth  and  followed  it  and 
arrived  at  the  Proudfits'  with :  — 

"I  was  right  in  the  midst  of  a  basque,  cuttin'  over 
an  old  lining,  but  I  told  Liddy  Ember:  'You  rip  on. 
I've  got  to  run  over.'  Excuse  my  looks.  Well  said  ! 
Back!" 

And,  "Got  here,  did  you  ?  My,  my,  all  tired  out, 
I  expect.  Well,  mebbe  you  think  we  won't  feel  re- 
lieved to  see  the  house  open  again  an'  folks  in  it 
flyin'  round.  An'  you  look  as  natural  as  the  first 
thunder-storm  in  the  spring  o'  the  year!" 

And,  "  Every  day  for  two  weeks,"  Mis'  Sturgis  s?id, 
"I've  said  to  Jimmy:  'Proudfits  back?'  'No,  sir,' 
s'he,  *  not  back  yet.'  An'  so  it  went.  Could  you 
sleep  any  on  the  sleeper?" 

Then  Calliope  and  Mis'  Toplady  and  Mis'  Hoi- 
comb  and  the  three  newcomers  hurried  all  but 
abreast  to  the  kitchen  to  "  see  what  they  could  find  " ; 
and  when  Mis'  Proudfit  and  Miss  Clementina  and 
Delia  More  had  taken  their  places  at  the  burdened 


THE   HIDINGS   OF   POWER  317 

table,  we  all  sat  about  the  edge  of  the  room  —  no  one 
would  share  in  the  feast,  every  one  having  to  "get 
right  back"  -  and  asked  of  the  journey,  and  gave 
news  of  Friendship  Village  in  the  long  absence.  I 
love  to  remember  it  all,  but  I  think  that  I  love  best 
to  remember  their  delicate  acceptance  of  what  that 
day  had  brought  to  me.  Of  this  no  one  said  a  word, 
nor  did  they  ask  me  anything,  or  seem  to  observe,  far 
less  to  wonder.  But  when  they  passed  me,  one  and 
another  and  another  squeezed  my  hand  or  patted  my 
arm  or  gave  me  their  unwonted  "dear." 

"What  gentlefolk  they  are,"  my  stranger  said. 

"Noon  lunch"  was  finished,  and  I  had  seen  Cal- 
liope go  with  Madame  Proudfit  to  the  library  and 
close  the  door,  and  we  were  all  gathered  in  the 
hall,  where  Miss  Clementina  had  opened  a  trunk 
and  was  showing  us  some  pretty  things,  when  some 
one  else  crossed  the  veranda  and  appeared  in  the 
doorway.  And  there  was  Abel,  come  with  my  wild 
roses. 

I  do  not  think,  however,  that  it  can  have  occurred 
to  Abel  that  I  was  in  the  room.  Nor  that  any  of  the 
others  were  there,  intent  on  the  pretty  things  of 
Miss  Clementina's  trunk.  But,  his  face  shining,  he 
went  straight  to  Delia  More;  and  he  laid  my  roses 
in  her  arms,  looking  at  her  the  while  with  a  look 
which  was  like  a  passionate  recognition  of  one  not 
met  for  many  years. 


3i8  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

I  have  said  nothing  of  Delia  More  as  she  seemed 
to  me  that  day  of  her  return,  for  indeed  I  do  not  well 
know  how  to  tell  of  her.  But  as  he  looked  at  her, 
it  was  all  in  Abel's  eyes.  I  do  not  know  whether  it 
was  that  her  spirit  having  been  long  "packed  down 
in  her/'  as  Calliope  had  said,  was  at  last  loosed  by 
the  mysterious  ministry  of  distance  and  the  touch  of 
far  places,  or  whether,  over  there  nearer  Tempe,  she 
had  held  converse  with  Daphne  herself,  who,  for  the 
sake  of  the  Friendship  bond  between  them,  had  taken 
for  her  own  all  that  was  wild  and  strange  in  the 
girl's  nature.  But  this  I  know :  that  Delia  More  had 
come  back  among  us  a  new  creature,  simple,  gentle, 
humble  as  before,  and  yet  somehow  quickened,  in- 
vested with  the  dignity  of  personality  which,  long 
ago,  she  had  lost.  And  now  she  stood  looking  at 
Abel  as  he  was  looking  at  her. 

"Delia!"  he  said,  and  took  her  hand,  and,  "I 
brought  you  some  wild  roses  to  tell  you  we're  glad 
you're  back,"  said  he,  disposing  of  my  hedge  spoils 
as  coolly  as  if  I  were  not. 

"That's  nice  of  you,  Abel,"  she  replied  simply, 
"but  it's  nicer  to  think  you  came." 

"Why,"  Abel  said,  "you  couldn't  have  kept  me 
away.  You  couldn't  have  kept  me  away,  Delia." 

He  could  not  have  done  looking  at  her.  And  even 
after  we  had  closed  in  before  them  and  had  gone  on 
with  our  talk  about  the  tray  of  the  trunk,  I  think  that 


THE   HIDINGS  OF   POWER  319 

we  were  all  conscious,  as  one  is  conscious  of  a  light 
in  the  room,  that  to  Delia  and  Abel  had  come  again 
the  immemorial  wonder. 

When  the  library  door  opened  and  Madame  Proud- 
fit  and  Calliope  came  out,  a  little  hush  fell  upon  us, 
even  though  none  but  I  knew  what  that  interval 
held  for  Linda's  mother.  Her  face  was  tranquil  — 
indeed,  I  think  it  was  almost  as  if  its  ancient  fear 
had  forever  left  it  and  had  given  place  to  the  blessed 
relief  of  mere  sorrow.  She  stood  for  a  moment  — 
looking  at  them  all,  and  looking,  as  if  she  were  thank- 
ful for  their  presence.  Then  she  saw  Abel  and  held 
out  both  hands. 

"Abel!"  she  said,  "Abel!  I  had  your  letter  in 
Lucerne.  I  meant  to  talk  it  over  with  you  —  but 
now  I  know,  I  know.  You  shall  have  your  little 
chapel  in  the  hills.  We  will  build  it  together  —  you 
and  I  —  for  Linda." 

But  then,  because  Abel  turned  joyously  and 
naturally  to  Delia  to  share  with  her  the  tidings, 
Madame  Proudfit  looked  at  Delia  too,  and  saw  her 
eyes.  And, 

"You  and  Delia  and  I,"  she  added  gently. 

On  which,  with  the  kindliest  intent,  the  happiness 
of  us  all  overflowed  in  speech  about  the  common- 
place, the  trivial,  the  irrelevant,  and  we  all  fell  talk- 
ing at  once  there  in  the  hall,  and  told  one  another 
things  which  we  knew  perfectly  already,  and  we 


320  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

listened,  nodding,  and  laughed  a  great  deal  at  noth- 
ing in  the  world  —  save  that  life  is  good. 

We  three  walked  home  together  in  the  afternoon 
sunshine  —  the  man  who,  through  all  this  time  in 
Friendship,  had  been  dear,  and  Calliope  and  I. 
I  thought  that  Daphne  Street  had  never  looked  so 
beautiful.  The  tulip  beds  on  the  lawns  had  been 
re-filled  for  summer,  a  touch  of  bonfire  smoke  hung 
in  the  air,  Eppleby  Holcomb  was  mending  his  picket 
gate,  and  over  many  magic  thresholds  of  the  cool 
walks  were  lintels  of  the  boughs.  Down  town 
Abigail  Arnold  was  laying  cream  puffs  in  the  home 
bakery  window;  at  the  Helmans'  Mis'  Doctor  Hel- 
man,  wound  in  a  shawl  and  a  fascinator,  was  train- 
ing her  matrimony  vine;  the  Liberty  sisters  had  let 
out  their  chickens  and,  posted  in  a  great  triangle, 
were  keeping  them  well  within  Liberty  lawn  confines ; 
Doctor  June  was  working  in  his  garden  and  he 
waved  his  hat  at  us  like  a  boy.  ("It's  a  year  ago 
now  they  give  him  his  benefit,"  Calliope  remem- 
bered; "ice-cream  an'  strawberries  an'  cake.  An' 
every  soul  that  come  in  he  treated,  one  after  another. 
An'  when  they  got  hold  of  him  an'  told  him  what 
that  was  doin'  to  the  benefit  box,  he  wanted  to  know 
whose  benefit  it  was,  anyway.  An'  he  kep'  on  treatin' 
folks  up  to  the  last  spoonful  o'  cream.  He  said  he 
never  had  such  a  good  time  since  he  was  born. 


THE   HIDINGS  OF  POWER  331 

I  donno  but  he  showed  us  how  to  give  a  benefit, 
too.") 

We  were  crossing  the  lawn  to  Oldmoxon  House 
when  I  said  to  Calliope  what  it  had  been  decided 
that  day  that  I  should  say :  — 

"Calliope,"  I  asked,  "could  you  be  ready  in  a 
month  or  two  to  leave  Friendship  for  good,  and  come 
to  us  in  town,  and  live  with  us  for  always  ?" 

She  looked  up  at  one  and  the  other  of  us,  with  her 
little  embarrassed  laugh. 

"  You're  makin'  fun  o'  me,"  she  said. 

But  when  we  had  explained  that  we  were  wholly 
serious,  she  stopped  and  leaned  against  one  of  the 
great  trees  before  the  house;  and  it  was  at  Old- 
moxon House  rather  than  at  us  that  she  looked  as 
she  answered :  — 

"I  couldn't,"  she  said  quickly,  and  with  a  manner 
of  breathlessness,  "I  couldn't.  You  know  how  I've 
wanted  to  leave  Friendship,  too,  you  know  that. 
An'  I  want  to  yet,  as  far  as  wantm'  goes.  But 
wantin'  to  mustn't  be  enough  to  make  you  do  things." 

She  stood,  her  head  held  up  as  if  she  were  singing, 
as  Liddy  Ember  had  said  of  her,  her  arms  tightly 
folded,  her  cheeks  flushing  with  her  fear  that  we 
would  not  understand. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "you  know  —  you  know  how  I've 
always  wanted  nice  things.  Wanted  'em  so  it  hurt. 
Not  just  fron  likin'  'em, either,  but  because  some  way 

Y 


322  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE 

I  thought  I  could  be  more,  do  more,  live  up  to  my 
biggest  best  if  I  could  only  get  where  things  was  kind 
of  educated  an*  —  gentle.  But  every  time  I  tried  to 
go,  somethin'  come  up  —  like  it  will,  to  shove  you 
hard  down  into  the  place  you  was.  Then  I  thought 
—  you  know  'bout  that,  I  guess  —  I  thought  I  was 
goin'  to  live  here  in  Oldmoxon  House,  an*  hev  a  life 
like  other  women  hev.  An'  when  that  wasn't  to  be, 
I  thought  mebbe  it  was  because  God  see  I  wasn't  fit 
for  it,  an'  I  set  to  work  on  myself  to  make  me  as 
good  as  I  knew  —  an'  I  worked  an'  worked,  like  life 
was  nothin'  but  me,  an'  I  was  nothin'  but  a  cake,  to 
get  a  good  bake  on  an'  die  without  bein'  too  much 
dough  to  me.  An'  then  all  to  once  I  see  that  couldn't 
be  the  only  thing  He  meant.  It  didn't  seem  like  He 
could  'a'  made  me  sole  in  order  to  save  me  from  hell. 
An'  I  begun  to  see  He  must  'a*  made  me  to  help  in 
some  great,  big  hid  plan  or  other  of  His.  An'  quick 
as  I  knew  that  an'  begun  wantin'  to  help,  He  begun 
showin'  me  when  to.  That's  how  I  mean  what  I 
said  about  the  Bell.  Times  like  Elspie,  or  'Leven, 
or  like  that,  I  can  hear  it  just  as  plain  as  plain  — 
the  Bell,  callin'  me  to  help  Him." 

She  looked  hard  at  us,  and,  "I  donno  if  you  know 

what  I'm  talkin'  about "  she  doubted ;  but,  at 

our  answer, 

"Well,"  she  added,  "they's  somethin'  else.  It's 
somethin'  almost  like  what  you've  got  -  you  two  — 


THE  HIDINGS  OF   POWER  323 

—  an'  like  what  Delia  an'  Abel  have  got.  Lately, 
I  don't  need  to  hear  the  Bell  any  more.  I  know 
'bout  it  without.  It's  almost  like  I  am  the  Bell. 
Don't  you  see,  it's  come  to  be  my  power,  just  like 
love  will  be  your  power,  if  you  rilly  understand. 
An'  here  —  here  I  know  how.  I've  grown  to  Friend- 
ship, an'  here  I  know  what's  what.  An'  if  I  went 
away  now,  where  things  is  gentle  an'  like  in  books, 
I  wouldn't  know  how  to  be  any  rill  use.  I  can  be 
the  Bell  here  —  here  I  can  have  my  power.  In 
town  I  expect  I  couldn't  be  anything  but  just  cake 
again  —  bakin'  myself  rill  good,  or  even  gettin' 
frosted;  but  mebbe  not  helpin'.  An'  I  couldn't 
risk  that  —  I  couldn't  risk  it.  It  looks  to  me  like 
helpin'  is  what  I'm  for." 

I  think,  as  she  said,  Calliope  was  become  the  Bell ; 
and  at  that  moment  she  rang  to  us  the  call  of  sov- 
ereign clearness.  This  was  the  life  that  she  and 
Abel  followed,  and  followed  before  all  else,  and  there 
lay  the  hiding  of  their  power.  "Just  like  love  will 
be  your  power,"  she  had  said. 

When  she  had  gone  before  us  into  the  house — • 
that  was  to  have  been  her  house  —  we  two  stood 
looking  along  the  sunny  Plank  Road  toward  Daphne 
Street.  And  in  the  light  lifting  of  the  bonfire  smoke 
it  seemed  to  me  that  there  moved  a  spirit  —  not 
Daphne,  but  another;  one  who  walks  less  in  beauty 
than  in  service ;  not  our  lady  of  the  laurels,  but  our 
lady  of  the  thorns. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


rjv  r/ 


J 


FORED  AT  NRLF 


PS3513.A34F7 


3  2106  00210  9400 


